


Three

by aslytherspuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Polyamory, Romance, Triad - Freeform, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aslytherspuff/pseuds/aslytherspuff
Summary: Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts might have been very different if he'd had Fred and George to help him through the Triwizard Tournament - they are, after all, known for inventing ingenious solutions to almost any problem.But, for Harry, getting close to the twins creates its own problems.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Fred Weasley, Harry Potter/Fred Weasley/George Weasley, Harry Potter/George Weasley
Comments: 270
Kudos: 1430





	1. The Jail Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the timeline of Goblet of Fire Chapters Two, Three, and Four.

The summer preceding Harry's fourth year was proving to be mediocre at best. For one glorious hour on the sixth of June, he had believed that he was leaving the Dursleys' at last, because his godfather had offered him a home of his own. A good life. A family.

The offer still stood, of course, but thanks to the traitor Wormtail and the inconvenient timing of the full moon, his godfather's name-clearing now seemed a distant possibility. The home Harry might have had if Wormtail had not escaped had been haunting him all summer, and it had been doubly hard to return to the Dursleys knowing that he had so nearly escaped them forever.

Sirius and Professor Lupin – _Remus_ , the man insisted every time Harry wrote to them – had been of some help, even if they couldn't yet give him the home they'd promised. Between a werewolf and an escaped convict backing Harry's corner, the Dursleys had been afraid to so much as glance in Harry's direction for most of the summer. The cold, almost fearful indifference to his existence wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was a damn sight better than the never-ending chores, punishments, and meagre food rations of previous years.

Whenever Sirius' ridiculously flamboyant birds turned up at Privet Drive with a letter, Harry made sure to let his aunt and uncle know about it. It was worth parading around the irritable toucans and parrots that arrived, if only to see Uncle Vernon turn an odd shade of purple and mutter under his breath about the “unnaturalness” of it all.

Beside the birds, the only bright spot in his summer was, unusually, his cousin Dudley. Dudley was being subjected to a diet, which was going not well at all and he was absolutely furious about it. Privately, Harry thought that if Petunia just put her baby whale on Harry's usual summertime rations, he had hope of becoming a normal-sized human by some time this decade. As it was, Dudley was regularly sneaking doughnuts and still being fed more than twice the amount of food Harry normally got by an almost-hysterical mother who insisted she “didn't want her Duddy-kins to starve”. In some kind of misled pity move, the whole household was being subjected to the diet, and while Harry still got the smallest portions – ridiculous, given he was the only one _not_ overweight – he was eating far better than he usually did over the summer.

They were just sitting down to eat a slice of grapefruit for the eleventh morning in a row – well, the Dursleys were sitting, Harry was standing in the kitchen, grateful to be as far away from his 'family' as possible – when a knock came on the door. In summers past, that would have triggered a “you, boy!” from his uncle and a fat finger pointed at the door. As things were, Vernon merely regarded Harry with his narrowed, piggy eyes as he heaved himself up from the table and lumbered to the door himself. Harry hid a smirk as he thought that the extra exercise might do him some good.

A few minutes later, he lumbered back in, moustache twitching and looking furious. Then came the line and the finger pointing: “you, boy!” he growled, “in there!”

The knowledge that Sirius would avenge his death made him feel only slightly better as he placed his plate in the sink with shaking hands and followed his uncle into the living room, where the man stood looming in front of the fireplace, some paper clutched in his beefy hands. Harry was at a loss as to who could possibly have been at the door to cause such a reaction, but he was certain that whatever it was, it couldn't be _his_ fault.

“So,” he said, ominously, before madly brandishing a piece of purple paper. “This just arrived. The postman brought it. It's about you.”

Harry blanched. What letters could possibly be coming to him via the Muggle post? Even Hermione used Hedwig to write to him. All his friends knew any interaction with the Dursleys was best avoided, especially after Ron's altercation with Vernon via the telephone last summer. Protection of his godfather or no, Harry's heart stuttered uncomfortably in his chest. The previous result of his uncle's forced interaction with the magical world had been an experience Harry had no desire to repeat.

Vernon shoved the letter into Harry's trembling hands. “Go on, boy. Read it.” From the tone of his voice and the way he and Petunia were both glaring at him, Harry presumed they meant for him to read it aloud.

> _Dear Mr and Mrs Dursley_
> 
> _We have never been introduced, but it was my home Harry stayed at the summer before last, and Harry shares a dormitory with my son, Ron, at Hogwarts._
> 
> _The final of the Quidditch World Cup takes place next Monday night, and we have managed to secure some tickets to attend the match. We would like to invite Harry to attend the match with our family._
> 
> _If you are agreeable, I will send my husband, Arthur, to collect Harry from your home on Friday night._
> 
> _We would, of course, be happy to have Harry to stay for the remainder of the summer holidays after the Cup. We will take him to Diagon Alley for all his school supplies and see him back onto the train in September._
> 
> _Please ask Harry to send your reply as soon as possible the normal way. Muggle post seems a bit slow and I don't believe a Muggle postman will be able to find our house._
> 
> _Hoping to see Harry soon,_
> 
> _Molly Weasley_

As Harry finished reading, Vernon thrust his fist into Harry's face. He recoiled instinctively, but he was merely holding out the envelope for Harry to see. Mrs Weasley, it appeared, had put on an enormous array of stamps. At a glance, it appeared that most of them weren't even British stamps. One appeared to depict a large whale, one a kangaroo, and several showed various types of wild mushrooms. Harry had a brief thought that either Mr Weasley knew less about the Muggle world than his job implied, or the twins had managed to talk their mother into using this many as their idea of a joke. He was leaning towards the latter, and he would be sure to let them know how his relatives took it as soon as he saw them. Or, Harry amended, he would let them know an edited version. If his uncle saw fit to beat him to a pulp, that was not something he would be likely to share.

“The postman noticed,” Vernon growled through gritted teeth. “Very interested to know where this letter came from. That's why he rang the doorbell. He seemed to think it was _funny_.”

Harry couldn't resist baiting his uncle just a little bit, if only for a good story to tell the twins. If he was going to get punished either way, he might as well make it worth it. He tilted his head slightly to read off of some of the stamps. “Well,” he said, thoughtfully, “it looks like it might have come from Australia, though it must've gotten lost on it's way here... Appears to have passed through India, Egypt, Romania... Oh, the United States, as well, and Canada... Better travelled than I am, this letter.”

Vernon's face turned almost purple, his moustache quivering above his sweaty triple chins, but Harry held his nerve and refused to allow himself to flinch. “YOU KNOW FULL WELL IT DIDN'T COME FROM AUSTRALIA! IT'S ONE THING SENDING YOUR FREAKY LETTERS BY OWL BUT I WILL NOT HAVE ANY OF YOUR FREAKY FRIENDS SULLYING OUR ROYAL MAIL SERVICE!”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to hide his smirk. He'd provoked his uncle quite enough, and he didn't have any real desire to push him to violence. “Yes, Uncle Vernon,” he replied, politely. “I'll make sure to tell them, Uncle Vernon. None of our letters via your slow Muggle post.” He took the stamp-covered envelope from his uncle and tucked it in his pocket. “I'll write back to Mrs Weasley and my godfather to let them know I'll be there. And I'll make sure I use my owl.”

Vernon's whole head was practically vibrating, but he'd gone sickly-pale at the mere mention of Harry's godfather, and Harry was able to escape upstairs to write his letters before his aunt and uncle had the chance to say – or do – anything more on the subject.

When he got to his room, Hedwig was on the windowsill holding a letter of her own, and Harry opened the window to let her in.

> _Hiya Harry_
> 
> _Did you like the stamps?_
> 
> _We're coming to get you whether the Muggles like it or not. If you don't write back, we'll forge a letter and give it to mum. There's no way the youngest Hogwarts Seeker in a century can miss a match like this!_
> 
> _We'll be there at five o'clock tomorrow._
> 
> _Gred and Forge_

Harry grinned. He'd known the twins had been behind the stamps, and he was glad they had plans to rescue him regardless of what the Dursleys had to say on the matter. That would make two summers now that they'd essentially engineered a jail break for him, and he owed them big time. Ron worried about him, too, of course, but he didn't seem to quite understand just how bad the Dursleys were. Fred and George did.

> _Gred and Forge,_
> 
> _The stamps were brilliant. The postman knocked on the door to ask Vernon about them and he was apoplectic! Accused us of 'sullying their Royal Mail service', as if by sending a letter, you'd offended the Queen herself!_
> 
> _They've said I can go. Well, they didn't. But they didn't say I couldn't, either._
> 
> _See you at five o'clock tomorrow._
> 
> _Harry_

Thanks to the threat of his godfather, the Dursleys hadn't dared lock his trunk away in the cupboard like they had in previous summers, so Harry spent the majority of the next day packing away his things including, for the first time ever, his completed summer homework. He was sure that Snape would still find cause to complain, as Harry hadn't been able to brew the required potions himself for obvious reasons. But Hermione had brewed them and had written the whole process down for him in minute detail, so he had hope that his essay on the preparation and brewing of the three different Shrinking Solutions would at least be passable. He had no summer homework from DADA, of course, McGonagall had simply assigned reading, and his summer homework from Trelawney was laughable. He'd written her an essay full of made up dreams – he could hardly tell her his real ones – and how they all somehow predicted his imminent demise. That would keep her happy. Especially as he had the increasingly sinking feeling that his real dreams might well be predicting the same end.

As five o'clock crept closer, Harry realised with a jolt that he had no idea how the Weasleys planned to arrive, and hurried down into the living room with his trunk. If they did anything outlandish, he wanted to be ready to leave immediately, before his aunt and uncle could change their minds.

Harry's worries, it turned out, were well-founded.

There was suddenly a loud, grating noise from the boarded-up fireplace, followed by shouting that sounded suspiciously like Mr Weasley. Moments later, Harry heard a enthusiastic ' _bombarda_ ', and the Dursleys' electric fire shot across the room, narrowly missing Dudley's fairly unmissable head and slamming into the wall above the bookshelf. Not that it had ever had any books on it besides Aunt Petunia's awful, raunchy romances which were now hidden away in her bedroom.

The Dursleys were cowering in a corner, arms over their heads, while Mr Weasley and the twins emerged cheerfully from the rubble.

“That's better,” said Mr Weasley, as Fred shot Harry a cheeky wink and tucked his wand back into his pocket. George stood just behind him, grinning, and Harry left his trunk to throw himself at them, a huge smile spreading across his face. He'd known they were coming, but he'd not allowed himself to fully believe it until he saw their faces for himself.

The twins hugged him tightly – Fred in front and George behind – as Harry whispered “that was brilliant!” in their ears. They snickered.

“Dad thinks it just gave way. He'll be asking you if all Muggles have self-exploding fireplaces later, just you wait,” George predicted, as Mr Weasley brushed soot off his robes and tried to politely introduce himself to the Dursleys.

“Better than that,” Fred whispered, “watch what we've got planned for your cousin.”

The twins had learned about Hagrid giving Dudley a pig tail and had been waiting ever since to one-up that punishment with an even better one, especially after Harry accidentally let slip about Dudley's 'Harry Hunting'. Besides transfiguring him permanently into a whale, Harry couldn't imagine what they might have planned, but he was sure that whatever it was, his cousin deserved it. He only hoped they had a little something for his aunt and uncle as well.

Fred winked at Harry, then stepped back. “Grab his trunk, George,” he said, eyeing Dudley who was grasping his own bottom and trying to slink unnoticed out of the room. “I'll just check upstairs, make sure Harry's not forgotten anything.”

It was a decidedly bad idea to let Fred loose in the Dursleys' house, but Harry said nothing. Clearly, the twins had a plan, and nothing he said was likely to stop them.

Five minutes later, with Fred back downstairs and everyone ready to go, they stepped back into the Dursleys' now-accessible fireplace and Floo'd to the Burrow entirely without incident... Until Mr Weasley apparated into the front garden a short while later, his face an odd mixture of amusement and disapproval.

“What did you do boys?” he demanded, as the twins grinned unrepentantly at their father. “Don't make me tell your mother!”

Harry flinched back slightly at the unexpected sound of Mr Weasley raising his voice. It wasn't even enough to even be considered a shout, not really, but it made Harry's stomach churn uncomfortably.

George shoved Harry's trunk into his hands. “Here, Harry, take this up to Ron's room. We'll be there in a minute.”

Fred grinned at him. “We'll tell you everything.”


	2. The Chicken Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaguely based during Goblet of Fire Chapter Five.

Harry set Hedwig's cage in the corner of Ron's room next to Pig's, and shoved his trunk under the camp bed Mrs Weasley had set up for him. He'd been expecting Ron, at least, and possibly Hermione to be here to greet him, and he felt a slight pang of disappointment that there was no sign of them at all in the house. In fact, the whole house seemed suspiciously quiet; when he'd visited two summers ago, it had been loud and busy and full of life.

A shout from outside Ron's bedroom window – which never seemed to shut properly – caught his attention, and he peered out to see a hoard of red-heads zipping around on brooms over what looked like a makeshift Quidditch pitch. Hoops had been conjured and hung from tree branches, and Ron was hovering at one end, guarding them. He could see Ginny; she was the smallest by far, and appeared to have control of the Quaffle, though there were two red-heads Harry didn't recognise on her tail. One of them – despite looking almost as hulking as Crabbe or Goyle – was lightning fast and sharp on his broom in a way that made Harry itch to get out his own and call a Seeker's match.

Another shout drew his attention down to the ground, where Fred and George were waving up at him, brooms in hand. “Come down, Harry!” one of them shouted – possibly Fred, though it was hard to tell from such a distance, especially with Harry's awful eyesight.

Mood immediately improved by the possibility of Quidditch, he grabbed his Firebolt from his trunk and hurried down the rickety stairs and out the back door into the garden. As soon as he emerged, Ron gave a shout, and all four red-heads came zooming down out of the sky to land on the grass in front of him.

Ron grinned at his best friend and pulled him into a hug so tight that Harry felt his ribs creak in protest. “Perfect timing!” he exclaimed as he finally let go, “we need a Seeker!”

The large, hulking red-head – who Harry could see now was nothing like Crabbe and Goyle, but was instead built of solid muscle and covered in tattoos – scoffed in the back of his throat. “Come on, Ronnikins, I'm _always_ Seeker.”

“Not with Harry around, you're not,” the twins chimed, grinning. “Trust us.”

Harry felt his heart warm that the twins were so confident in his abilities against someone who was clearly quite a talented Seeker, but he didn't want to cause any problems, so he smiled at the large man who, based on the dragon-themed tattoos, Harry assumed must be Charlie. “I don't mind, really. I can play any position.” He'd heard a lot about Charlie from Oliver Wood, and didn't hold much hope that he would be good enough to out-fly a man who had been offered a spot on the national team straight out of Hogwarts.

Ron had just opened his mouth – to protest or agree, Harry wasn't sure – when he was interrupted by Ginny, who emerged from behind the fourth red-head, a dangerous expression on her face.

“So,” said Ginny, her eyes glinting with mischief, “did it work?” She was grinning wickedly at the twins, who smirked back proudly.

“You doubt us?” Fred gasped, clutching his chest dramatically.

“When have we ever let Harry down?” George added, his arm sneaking out to grab Harry and pull him into his side. Harry struggled half-heartedly, but knew the twins better than to think he could get away; instead, he stood there, cheeks burning uncomfortably, as all attention turned to him. Thankfully, Fred quickly pulled the focus back to himself by dramatically producing a handful of brightly-coloured sweets from his robe pockets.

“Our newest invention!” he crowed proudly. “Beastly Bon-bons!”

“For one, whole hour, you'll be unable to converse in anything but animal noises!”

“Your poor cousin Dudley,” Fred continued, turning to Harry with a faux-pitying expression on his face, “will be conversing in whale song this evening.”

The whole group – even the two brothers Harry had never met – broke into side-creasing, tear-inducing fits of laughter. Harry had to clasp onto George's arm just to keep himself upright; his lungs burned and tears streamed down his face as he imagined Dudley sitting dismally in front of his evening plate of salad, trying to talk Petunia into cooking him some steak but making nothing but increasingly distressed whale bellows.

“Even better,” George added between giggles, “your uncle sounds like a walrus, and your aunt can't stop neighing.”

The concept of the entire house being turned into an oddly-apt sort of zoo was better than anything Harry could have imagined. “Thank you,” he gasped, as he finally got his breath back. “You're both absolutely brilliant!”

The twins beamed and bowed to him dramatically. “At your service.”

The oldest of the six assembled Weasleys cleared his throat and stepped past Ginny and the twins to stand in front of Harry, his hand out. “Since none of these ill-mannered turnips seem inclined, I'll introduce myself,” he said, smiling, “Bill Weasley.”

Harry grinned back and shook the man's hand. “Harry Potter,” he said, though he realised immediately that Bill already knew who he was. _Everyone_ knew who he was, unfortunately. Thankfully, all Weasleys seemed immune to the kind of star-struck behaviour he got from others, because Bill didn't even try to take a peek at his scar. Instead, he appeared to be admiring Harry's Firebolt, which he'd had propped up against the side of the house.

He'd heard a fair bit about Bill from Ron – Head Boy, top of his classes, worked for Gringotts... Harry had been expecting someone stuffy and boring, like Percy, but Bill was anything but. He was wearing the tightest dragon-hide trousers Harry had ever seen, his long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and a fang dangled from one ear. Like Charlie, he seemed to have some tattoos, though most of his were hidden beneath a loose Muggle t-shirt.

Charlie appeared beside his brother and offered his huge, calloused hand for Harry to shake. “Charlie,” he said, an easy smile on his tanned, freckled face. “I'm the one with the dragons.”

“I'd noticed,” Harry said, with a nod towards the tattoos, before his brain had chance to catch up with his mouth. When it did, he flushed beet red and his chest burned with embarrassment. _Why on earth had he said that?_

Charlie chuckled and held out his left arm for Harry to see; a hyper-realistic red and black dragon was curling around his huge bicep, blowing dark smoke out of its nostrils. “I've got about ten of them in all, but this one's Bettie. She's a Chinese Fireball.”

Harry's fingers itched to stroke it, but he shoved his hands in his pockets. He'd only just met Charlie – _Ron's older brother_ – and he couldn't just go around grabbing people he barely knew! “She's lovely,” he said, instead, but it seemed like the right thing to do because Charlie beamed proudly.

“Don't get him started,” warned Ron, as Charlie opened his mouth to say something about his tattoo. “Tattoos or dragons, he'll talk your ear off.”

Ginny, apparently boring of the introductions, picked up Harry's broom and shoved it into his hands. “You're Seeker and referee. Ron and Bill are Keepers. The rest of us are Chasers. Charlie, you're with George. Fred, you're with me.”

Fred and George groaned at being split up, but the rest of the Weasleys seemed to agree that putting them on the same team was an unfair advantage. The rules were simple: Chasers could score at either end, and the game ended when Harry caught the Snitch.

“I brought a brand new one,” Charlie said, holding up a fluttering, shiny, gold ball. “So it's wicked fast. Good luck catching it.”

After Harry caught the Snitch three times in a row before a single point was scored, the rest of the Weasleys downed broomsticks and demanded he and Charlie fly the Seekers Match Harry had been itching for since he first saw Charlie flying.

Just as they had kicked off – and Charlie was having no trouble keeping up with Harry's Firebolt, even on his Comet 290 – Mrs Weasley's voice cut across the garden and interrupted them.

“Boys! Dinnertime!”

Harry sighed and steered his broomstick back towards the ground, but his mood brightened when he saw Hermione standing in the doorway beside Mrs Weasley, her hideous, orange cat in her arms. He still couldn't claim to _like_ the beast, but he had a certain soft spot for the cat, given how it had helped his godfather last year.

“It's like she forgets I'm here,” Ginny was grumbling as Harry touched back down. “Always calling 'boys' as if I don't even exist!”

“Well, you are practically a boy,” Ron replied, and Harry flinched. Ginny's temper was nearly as scary as Hermione's at times, and Ron's comment was akin to poking the beast.

“Practically a _boy_?” Ginny hissed, as all seven of them trudged back up the garden towards the house. “Did you know, Ronald, that girls can play Quidditch, too? The Holyhead Harpies are an all-women's Quidditch team, and they're, what, second in the league? That's a whole ten places higher than _your_ team. And Gwenog Jones is the best Beater in the league _and_ the youngest team captain in the last fifty years! But they're just women, so what would they know?”

Ron had gone beet red, and was desperately trying to shut Ginny up before Hermione caught wind of the conversation and added her own opinion. Luckily, Charlie stepped in and pulled Ginny aside, asking her if she'd heard about Gwenog Jones' work with the Welsh Dragon Sanctuary, and Harry fell into step beside Ron.

“Have Fred and George been doing a lot of that?” he asked conversationally. “Y'know, the joke sweets and stuff?”

Ron nodded. “Oh, yeah. They've got all sorts, now. Mum found a stack of order forms in their room last week and went mental. Apparently, they've been carrying on a mail order business right under our noses for months! Some of it's a bit dangerous, mind, but it's brilliant. They've got sweets that change your hair colour, ones that make your tongue swell until it can't fit in your mouth, biscuits that turn you into a canary, joke wands that look like your real one... But I like those bon-bons they used on your family best. They had mum clucking like a hen all morning last week!”

Harry thought all sounded hilarious, personally, and spent a few, glorious moments imagining what might happen if they slipped one of their inventions to Snape or Filch when they went back to school.

“Do you think your dad really will tell your mum what they did to the Dursleys?”

Ron snickered. “Not a chance. She'd be furious at him for letting them do it. There's no way he'll tell her – Hi, Hermione!”

Crookshanks leapt from Hermione's arms at the first sight of Ron and took off down the garden looking for gnomes.

“Tell who what?” she asked, suspiciously, as she pulled Ron and then Harry into a hug. “How have your summers been?”

“Tell Mrs Weasley about the twins' prank,” Harry muttered, then continued at normal volume, “you know what it's like with the Dursleys. I'm just glad to leave, honestly.”

Hermione's eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. “You look thin, again, Harry.”

“Dudley was on a diet.”

She didn't seem appeased, but she turned her attention to Ron anyway. “What about you, Ron? I see your brothers are visiting.”

“Yeah, they all wanted to come to the Quidditch, though I think Gin's the most excited of the lot. But can you imagine? The chance to see Victor Krum? _In person_?”

Neither Harry nor Hermione had the foggiest idea who Victor Krum was, but Ron made sure to tell them in great detail about every catch of his entire career. By the end of it, Hermione was clearly looking for an escape, but Harry was more excited than ever to attend the World Cup. Besides Hogwarts, he'd never had the chance to see a Quidditch match, and he couldn't wait to watch the 'best Seeker in the world' play in a professional game. Maybe he'd get some ideas for moves he could use this year at Hogwarts. That would show Malfoy who the better player was!

They entered the kitchen about ten minutes behind everyone else to find Mrs Weasley in fine form, waving a rubber chicken madly about her head.

“I'm warning you, Fred,” she was shouting at a contrite-looking George, “if I find one more bloody trick wand –”

“He's not Fred,” Fred intoned as he staggered out the back door, weighed down by platters piled high with food, “I am.”

“OH!” cried Mrs Weasley, throwing her hands up in the air. The rubber chicken writhed free from her grasp, screamed as it flew across the kitchen... and smacked an irritated-looking Percy in the face.

The whole kitchen fell deathly silent. Percy in fury. Mrs Weasley in shock. And the rest of the family – Mr Weasley included from the look on his face – in a desperate attempt not to laugh.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione hastily grabbed whatever they could reach and dashed out into the garden before the giggles could escape. They'd scarcely reached the huge, oak table before dissolving into hysterics. Harry barely managed to get the gravy boats onto the table before he dropped them, and Hermione seemed to be having a similar problem with her jugs of pumpkin juice. Ron, however, was curled on the ground, spasming with silent laughter, and clutching a single fork.

Fred had finished laying all the dishes out on the table and, sensing mischief, wandered over to see what was going on.

“Did you see – ” Ron gasped. “Did you see Percy's face?”

Hermione tried to smother her giggles in her hand but failed miserably.

Harry leaned heavily on the table, clutching his sides as his amusement continued to spill over into uncontrollable laughter.

Fred stared at them all, utterly bewildered, until George burst out of the back door, chased by Mrs Weasley, who was brandishing her real wand this time.

“I don't care what your name is! I'll lock the both of you in your room and you'll miss the Quidditch Cup!”

Fred turned his wide eyes back to Harry and mouthed 'what the hell?'

“Your mum – the chicken – Percy!” Harry gasped.

George sauntered over, a proud grin on his face. “Mum was so busy telling me off that she lost control of the rubber chicken,” he told Fred, snickering. “Went screaming across the kitchen and walloped Percy right across the face.”

It wasn't as good hearing it as it had been seeing it in person, but the retelling was enough to send them all into renewed fits of giggles, which they barely smothered in time for Mr and Mrs Weasley emerging with the last of the food.

“Now, boys,” Mr Weasley said, seriously, as he settled at the head of the table. “I want a quiet, peaceful dinner with _no_ pranks.”

Harry slid into a chair opposite Ron, between Fred and Ginny, and began to silently serve himself small helpings of pie and vegetables.

“Never said we couldn't prank anyone _after_ dinner,” Fred pointed out.

“Which is good,” George said, as he scrambled to grab a bit of everything before Ron could get his hands on it. “Since we've got plans for _after_ dinner.”


	3. The Cauldron Bottoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaguely based during Goblet of Fire Chapter Five, then follows the timeline of Chapter Six.

The plans for 'after dinner' started just as Mrs Weasley was dishing up dessert. She'd made a treacle tart – “I know it's your favourite,” George said, reaching over Fred to put nearly half of the large tart onto Harry's plate – as well as strawberry meringue and some kind of cheesecake. Ron, as always, grabbed large servings of everything and shovelled a bit of each into his mouth.

Hermione eyed him in disgust and served herself a far more sensible slice of meringue. “Honestly, Ronald, how is it you have no manners?” she whispered to him, loudly enough that most of the table heard. “Your brothers are all perfectly polite!”

Most of the table snickered – either at Ron being berated, or at the notion of the twins being 'perfectly polite' – and Ron mumbled something around his mouthful of food.

Beside Harry, the twins were suspiciously quiet, slowly eating their respective desserts with what appeared to be total concentration.

“What have you –” Harry started to ask Fred, when Ron noisily swallowed his mouthful and turned to reply to Hermione.

A loud grunt came out. Ron's eyes widened, and the grunt was rapidly followed by a series of much louder, high-pitched oinks and squeals.

Mrs Weasley flew out of her seat, storming towards the twins with a face like thunder, but Fred and George were out of their seats before Mrs Weasley could make it round the table. “Come on, mum,” Fred said, grinning, “it's just a bit of fun!”

“ _Bwwaaawk!_ ” cried Mrs Weasley, shaking her finger angrily at them, her face red.

No one was quite brave enough to laugh out loud at that, and Harry turned his head to muffle his laugher into his hand. Around the table, several people seemed to be doing the same.

Harry's eyes darted to the plates, rapidly taking stock of what people had chosen for dessert. Only Harry and Mr Weasley were eating the treacle tart. Ginny, Hermione, Fred, George, and Charlie had meringue. Ron, Mrs Weasley, Percy, and Bill had all gone for the cheesecake. Almost on cue, the entire table erupted into a cacophony of noise.

Mrs Weasley was gesturing angrily and pointing at the twins' bedroom window, no doubt repeating her earlier threats to ground them, though all that came out were clucks and squawks. Ron was oinking furiously and, at his side, Hermione was alternating between lecturing him for being greedy and berating the twins for playing pranks. Percy had his lips clamped tightly together, glaring murderously at his brothers, while Charlie, who was sitting beside him, was hunched over the table in gales of laughter. Bill was unabashedly roaring like a lion, grinning proudly to himself.

In the midst of all the chaos, Harry and Mr Weasley made furtive eye contact across the table, shrugged, and went back to eating their treacle tart.

The rest of the weekend continued in much the same pattern. Fred and George set off fireworks, swapped out real wands for fake ones, and slipped various members of the Weasley family trick products.

“They've _never_ been this bad,” huffed Ron on Saturday night as they settled down to sleep. “One prank a week at best, and they normally keep them well out of sight of mum. I can't believe she's not banned them from the World Cup yet.”

“I hope she doesn't.” Harry wondered if he was biased; he was the only one the twins hadn't pranked yet, so he thought all their jokes were hilarious. He probably wouldn't have found them quite as funny if he'd been the one oinking over the dinner table.

Ron grunted. “They'd deserve it, the gits,” was his only response, before he rolled over and pretended to be asleep.

On Sunday morning, Ron appeared to have gotten over his sulk – largely, Harry suspected, due to the fact that both Charlie and Bill were currently sporting garishly pink hair.

Ron had joined Harry at the table, good mood returned, and showed him an article about Victor Krum in Charlie's copy of _Seeker Weekly_. They were debating which of his signature moves he might use at the World Cup when Percy stormed into the kitchen in a towering fury.

Harry flinched when a large, pewter cauldron slammed onto the table in front of them, the resulting _clang_ rattling the windows.

“I am _trying_ to complete a very important report for the Ministry, and _this_ is the last straw,” Percy hissed, pointing angrily at the cauldron.

Harry caught Ron's eye in askance, but Ron just shrugged.

“What report, dear?” Mrs Weasley asked distractedly as she waved her wand at a pile of potatoes she was peeling for lunch.

“Mr Crouch wants me to standardise the thickness of cauldron bottoms. The market is being flooded with flimsy, shallow-bottomed cauldrons from goodness knows where and leakages are up three percent!”

Ron snickered. “I'm sure Percy's very concerned about Mr Crouch's _bottom leakages_ ,” he muttered to Harry, but Percy must have heard because he spun to face them.

“It's very serious business!”

“I'm sure it is, dear,” Mrs Weasley placated him. “What seems to be the problem?”

“ _This_ ,” Percy said, “is the problem.” He reached out to touch the bottom of the cauldron and it _giggled_.

“Oh!” gasped a female voice that seemed to come from inside the cauldron, “you naughty boy!”

Harry and Ron exchanged wide-eyed glances, their cheeks pink with the effort not to laugh.

Mrs Weasley looked scandalised. “Oh, my! Do they _all_ do that?”

“No,” huffed Percy, his face as red as his hair, “some of them are _male_.”

“Seems like your Mr Crouch has an unusual problem with his bottoms, eh, Perce?” came a voice from the corridor, and suddenly it dawned on them exactly what had happened to Percy's cauldrons.

“Oh, for heavens' sake,” cried Mrs Weasley, turning sharply to her husband, and Mr Weasley's head snapped up from the Muggle plug he'd been slowly deconstructing.

“You need to have a word with those two, Arthur. I don't know _what_ has gotten into them this weekend, but they need to _get it out_ before I murder the both of them! I don't know what's going to happen to them, I really don't. No ambition, unless you count making trouble... And it's not like they haven't got _brains_ ,” she continued, clearly on a roll now she'd gotten started. Harry tried to signal to Ron that they should make a hasty exit, but Ron was listening quite intently to Mrs Weasley's rant. “They're plenty bright but it's _such_ a waste! Their OWLs were abysmal, Arthur! They'll be bloody lucky if they're allowed to take any NEWTs at all!”

Harry took one last look at Ron, trying to entice him out of the room, but Ron wasn't interested, so he abandoned him at the kitchen table and snuck out of the kitchen door. He knew Mrs Weasley wouldn't really hurt a fly, but he still wasn't keen on the shouting. Instead, he headed up to Ron's room and pulled some parchment out of his trunk to write a letter to Sirius and Professor Lupin.

> _Dear Sirius and_ ~~_Professor Lupin_ ~~ _Remus,_
> 
> _I'm at the Weasleys' now. Mr Weasley and the twins came and got me on Friday, and we're off to the World Cup tomorrow morning._
> 
> _My scar has hurt a few more times, but I don't think it's anything to worry about. Please thank Remus for looking into it for me._
> 
> _The twins have started a mail-order prank business called Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes selling things like trick wands, fireworks, and bon-bons that have you stuck making animal noises for an hour. They used those on the Durselys – Dudley was a whale, Uncle Vernon was a walrus, and Aunt Petunia was a horse. This morning, they did something to Percy's cauldrons so that every time he touches them, they call him a naughty boy. Mrs Weasley is furious, but I think they're funny._
> 
> _I'll write to you after the World Cup to tell you both all about it._
> 
> _I wish you could be there._
> 
> _Harry_

Harry felt as though he had barely lain down to sleep when he was suddenly shaken awake by Mr Weasley.

“Time to go, boys, up you get,” he said far too cheerfully as he reached over to shake Ron as well.

Harry rolled over and groped on the night stand for his glasses; it was barely light outside, and even with them on, he couldn't see much. They dressed in silence, too sleepy to talk, and stumbled downstairs drawn by the scent of bacon and porridge wafting up from the kitchen. Ginny, Hermione, and the twins were already there, staring blearily at their breakfasts.

“Where are Bill, Charlie, and Percy?” Harry asked as Mrs Weasley placed a steaming bowl of porridge in front of him, and a plate full of bacon and eggs in front of Ron.

“They're apparating, dearie, so they'll be along later. Eat up.”

Harry wasn't entirely sure what _apparating_ was, but he was too tired to question it.

Ten minutes later – and _after_ Mrs Weasley had thoroughly searched Fred and George to confiscate all the sweets and pranks they'd hidden in their pockets, socks, and even underwear – the seven of them were trudging across the Weasleys' front garden in the dark.

As the hill they were headed for came into view, the twins fell into step beside Harry.

“Psst,” Fred whispered, and Harry blinked blearily at him.

George held out his hand, and opened it to display a range of sweets.

“I thought your mum took them all?”

The twins just grinned, then hurried off to catch up with Ginny, who was at the front of the group with Mr Weasley.

The hill was higher and steeper than it had looked from a distance and, after three days of Mrs Weasley's cooking and a very large breakfast, Harry was not at all prepared for it. Each breath he took burned his lungs, his legs were starting to ache and weaken, and he was stumbling and slipping on the uneven ground. Surely, wizards must have better ways of doing things than this?

Finally, his feet found level ground, and all he wanted to do was collapse onto the grass to catch his breath, but it was not to be.

“Over here, Arthur!” called a voice, and Harry looked up to see two figures silhouetted against the pale sky on the other side of the large hilltop.

“Amos!” Arthur shouted back, somehow recognising one of the figures, and their group was off again at a brisk pace.

The two figures turned out to be a man and a boy, who Harry vaguely recognised from Hogwarts, though he couldn't place him.

“This is Amos Diggory,” Mr Weasley introduced, grinning, “works with me, at the Ministry. And this is his son, Cedric.”

_Cedric Diggory_. Hufflepuff Seeker, Harry realised.

“Are these all yours, Arthur?” Amos asked, looking at the six of them in surprise. Harry supposed that to a family with only one child, the Weasleys _were_ quite a large brood. He'd certainly felt a bit overwhelmed his first time meeting them.

“No, no, only the red-heads. Got three more at home, as well. These are friends of Ron's, Harry and Hermione.”

Amos nodded politely to Hermione, but stopped dead when he saw Harry. Harry knew immediately what would come next.

“Merlin's beard... Harry? Harry Potter?”

The man's eyes looked him up and down, then darted immediately to his forehead, but what he said next was not what Harry had come to expect. “Ced's talked about you, of course,” he said, brusquely. “Told me all about beating you at Quidditch last year.”

Harry nodded weakly, unable to formulate a suitable reply to that. While it was better than the starry-eyed hero worship, he'd much rather not rehash a Quidditch match in which he nearly died.

“Harry fell off his broom –” Cedric interjected, and Harry felt a flash of gratitude towards the older boy.

“Yes, well,” his father said dismissively, and Harry's heart sank, “the best man won. _You_ didn't fall off _your_ broom, did you son? Doesn't take a genius to work out who's the better flier!”

Mr Weasley shifted uncomfortably. “Must be nearly time,” he muttered, “everyone grab the Portkey.”

“A Portkey?” Harry asked. Beside him, Fred and George had struck up a conversation with the Diggorys, but as it was probably about how Harry lost Gryffindor the Quidditch match, he forced himself to ignore it.

Mr Weasley pointed to what appeared to be an abandoned, muggle hiking boot laying in the grass. “That, Harry, is a Portkey. Charmed by the Ministry. We just need to make sure we're holding onto it at the pre-agreed time, and it'll take us all straight to the World Cup.”

Nine people crouched around a manky, old boot seemed like a very odd way to travel, but Harry had long since learned it was sometimes better not to ask.

Just as he felt a sharp, sickening jerk from behind his navel, Mr Diggory's tongue began to swell.


	4. The World Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the timeline of Goblet of Fire Chapters Seven and Eight.

They managed to part ways with the Diggorys before Mr Weasley noticed anything odd about Mr Diggory's tongue. This was thanks in no small part to several wizards dressed incredibly oddly in what they believed passed as Muggle attire, wands on full view, and shouting at the top of their lungs about broomsticks and Quaffles.

“Perce said there's a huge team of _Obliviators_ ,” George said, eyeing a man wearing nothing but a large poncho and hot pink wellington boots. “I suppose that's why.”

“Think they'd do us?” Fred asked, grimacing as the poncho whipped about in the wind, revealing the man's lack of underwear. Harry looked away hastily, cheeks burning.

After paying the heavily memory-modified Muggle who owned the campsite, they followed Mr Weasley across a large, misty field filled with tents; most of them looked almost ordinary, but every now and then there was one that stuck out like a sore thumb – ones with added chimneys, multiple floors, turrets, or fully furnished gardens. With wizards this obliviously obvious, Harry was astounded the magical world managed to remain hidden at all. But then, Harry had never had much of a chance to leave Little Whinging, unless he counted a school trip to Windsor; it was the only trip he'd ever been on, and it was only because Dudley had been too ill to go and Aunt Petunia hadn't wanted the money to be wasted completely. Perhaps had he travelled more, he'd have seen signs of the magical world long before his eleventh birthday.

Possibly naively, Harry had thought that the magical and Muggle world remained entirely separate; he'd assumed wizards had their own campsites, their own towns and villages, their own world, operating entirely independently from the Muggle world. Now, though, they were staying in a Muggle campsite and most of the tents – though heavily modified – were Muggle tents, likely bought at a Muggle shop. Most of the younger witches and wizards were dressed like Muggles, and even some of the older ones had managed not too badly. The two worlds must cross over far more than Harry – or the Dursleys – ever realised.

As they waited for the fire to get hot enough to cook lunch on – the tents had full kitchens, but Mr Weasley seemed very set on doing things 'the Muggle way' – Fred and George were on the look out for someone. Harry hadn't worked out who, yet, but they were watching everyone who passed with a little too much interest.

Harry wondered if maybe Fred was waiting for Angelina Johnson, one of the Chasers on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Angelina and Fred had been pretty cosy all last year, and everyone thought they were dating even though they refused to confirm it.

“So, who are you – ” Harry started to ask, when Mr Weasley suddenly leapt to his feet, narrowly avoiding knocking a full pot of water into the fire.

“Aha! The man of the moment!” he shouted, waving madly to a man in poorly-fitting, yellow and black striped Quidditch gear. “Everyone, this is Ludo Bagman!”

The man grinned widely and strutted over, apparently heedless to the way his stomach overflowed his trousers and protruded from under his shirt. “Arthur!” he called, and he sounded pleased to see Mr Weasley. Harry had noticed that most of the Ministry officials who had passed the tent had either completely ignored him or greeted him quite brusquely, as if he were below them. “Are all these yours?”

“Most of them,” Mr Weasley replied jovially. “Just these two aren't; they're Ron's friends come along to see the match.”

Harry was incredibly grateful Mr Weasley hadn't mentioned him by name. He smiled politely as Mr Bagman's eyes skimmed over him.

“Good, good. Nothing quite like a World Cup! Fancy a flutter on the match?”

Mr Weasley shifted. “They're a bit young to be gambling,” he said, reprovingly, “but I'll put a galleon on Ireland to win.”

Mr Bagman looked disappointed, but took the gold coin from Mr Weasley and popped it in a heavy, jingling pouch. “Very well,” he muttered. “Any more takers?” he asked, eagerly eyeing the oldest three Weasleys, who had arrived just minutes earlier.

Percy, predictably, declined to participate. “I don't think Mr Crouch would approve,” he said, eyeing the man uncomfortably.

Mr Bagman chuckled. “No matter, no matter. Anyone else?”

“We'll bet thirty-seven galleons, fifteen sickles, three knuts,” said Fred, as Mr Weasley turned to glare at him, “that Ireland win, but Victor Krum gets the Snitch.”

George grinned. “Oh, and we'll throw in a fake wand.”

Mr Bagman took the fake wand, his face bright with excitement, and gave it a wave. It squawked loudly and turned into a rubber chicken, just like Mrs Weasley's had, and he roared with laughter. “Excellent! Haven't seen one that good in years – I'd pay five galleons for that!”

“Boys,” Mr Weasley hissed under his breath, “I don't want you betting – your mother –”

“Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!” Mr Bagman boomed, grinning. “I'll give you excellent odds on that, boys! And I'll add five galleons to your bet for the wand.”

Mr Weasley looked on helplessly as Mr Bagman wrote down Fred and George's names and pocketed the money. Harry was fairly sure that was every penny they'd made on their mail-order business this summer, and couldn't understand why they were spending it on a bet that, even to someone as naïve as him, sounded impossible to win.

As the sun began to set, excitement seemed to rise over the campsite like a palpable cloud, and all pretences of being Muggles had been abandoned. Fires were lit in greens and reds to show which team each tent was supporting. People were apparating here and there, selling flags and rosettes and tiny figurines of the players that flew around on tiny broomsticks. Soon, Mr Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Ginny, and even Percy were sporting luminous, green shamrocks. Ron had a massive green rosette and a tiny figurine of Victor Krum. Hermione, very sensibly, bought a programme and a scarf. Fred and George, having spent all their money, had nothing, but that didn't seem to put a damper on their excitement in the least.

And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and red and green lanterns blazed to life in the trees, lighting the path to the pitch.

They walked through the woods for at least twenty minutes, laughing and joking and trying to guess what would happen during the match.

“Krum's going to catch the Snitch,” said Ron, “it's obvious, innit? He's the greatest Seeker in the world.”

“Lynch is damned good, though,” Charlie pointed out, his face illuminated by the giant shamrock pinned to his chest. “And loads more experienced.”

“Loads older, you mean?” quipped Fred. “He's got no chance against Krum. He's about ready to retire, he is.”

“But the Irish team have the better Chasers,” Bill pointed out. “The Seeker is important, but if the team's more than one hundred and fifty points down, they're useless.”

“The Bulgarian team relies on Krum,” Percy said, “it's a one-man show. They wouldn't have won a single match without him.”

“Ah,” George said, grinning, “that's why we made that bet with Bagman. Krum's too proud to let Lynch anywhere near the Snitch, and Ireland's Chasers will get the Quaffle past Zograf way more than fifteen times. So Krum will catch the Snitch, no doubt, but Ireland will win the match.”

Harry – having listened to Ron wax lyrical about Krum all weekend – couldn't help but agree with George's assessment of him. He only hoped his prediction about the Irish Chasers was just as accurate.

They emerged from the woods and found themselves in the shadow of an enormous stadium.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” Mr Weasley said, proudly, as he handed their tickets over to the witch at the entrance.

The witch smiled politely at all of them. “Top box,” she said, “Straight upstairs, high as you can go.”

Harry looked up, craning his neck to see the top of the stadium, and was suddenly immensely glad that he did not have a fear of heights.

They were the first to arrive at the Minister's box, which was far more comfortable and spacious than Harry had imagined, and they quickly found their seats; Ron and Hermione settled themselves on his left, and the twins on his right. They were soon surrounded by a great number of people, most of whom did a double take when they noticed Harry. In a way, he was almost grateful when Malfoy and his parents turned up because they weren't impressed in the slightest by his presence. The only other person who ignored him was Ludo Bagman, who they'd met earlier. He was still wearing the same, awful Quidditch robes and trying to talk people into placing last minute bets, but a glare from the Minister for Magic soon shut him up.

“Ready whenever you are, Ludo,” he said, sharply.

Mr Bagman raised his wand to his throat and muttered ' _sonorus_ '. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he crowed, “welcome to the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

“Get ready for the team mascots,” muttered Fred, his lips almost brushing Harry's ear in an attempt to be heard over the roar of the stadium. “Each team brings creatures from their native land to put on a show.”

Before Harry could ask what kind of creatures Fred meant, Mr Weasley gave a small shout.

“Ah!” he gasped. “ _Veela_!”

As he spoke, about a hundred women glided out onto the pitch. They were tall, blonde, and inhumanly beautiful; Harry was oddly reminded of the Malfoys, who were sitting in front and to the right of the Weasleys and looking distinctly unimpressed. The Veela started to dance, and Harry watched them with a sort of detached curiosity. Their skin seemed to glint in the moonlight, and their hair flowed around them as if they were underwater.

He was dimly aware of Bill, who was beside Ginny, starting to shred the shamrock that had been previously pinned to his chest and wondered what on earth he was doing, when Ron suddenly stood from his seat.

“Ron, what are you – ” Hermione began, as Ron stepped forward and swung one leg over the side of the box. Harry reached out and yanked him backwards.

“What on earth are you doing, mate?” he demanded.

Down below, the music came to an end, and the Veela retreated to the side of the pitch. Angry yells and boos drifted up from the crowd as Ron blinked dazedly at his best friend.

“Dunno,” he muttered, his face suddenly flushing scarlet as he sank back down in his seat.

Hermione made a loud tutting noise, but Mr Weasley was grinning openly. “Settle down, boys,” he said, cheerfully. “It's time for Ireland to have their say.”

The Irish team had brought hundreds of leprechauns, and put on a fantastic firework display which rained gold coins down over the entire stadium. Personally, Harry thought it was loads better than some dancing women; the twins, who were gleefully gathering up as much of the gold as they could reach, seemed to agree, but Ron still looked a bit disappointed.

Once the fireworks were over and the leprechauns dispersed, Mr Bagman announced the players onto the pitch – Ron perked up immediately upon seeing Krum – and the match began.

Victor Krum was everything Ron had professed him to be and more. Far more muscled than was usual for a Seeker, but fearless and wicked fast in a way that had Harry holding his breath as he dove head first towards the pitch or spiralled up into the night sky with more speed and effortless grace than Harry had ever seen in his life.

He tore his eyes away from the Bulgarian Seeker enough to know that the Irish Chasers were every bit as good as Bill and George had claimed, but if he were honest with himself, he saw very little of the actual match. He spent most of his time watching Krum, replaying his feints and dives in slow motion on the Omnioculars, committing every shift of weight and tightening of hands on the broom to memory. As soon as Harry got back to the Burrow, he was getting on his broom and practising until he could pull at least some of those moves off. If it killed him, he would win Gryffindor every single match this year.

When one of the Irish Beaters aimed a Bludger straight for Krum's face, Harry and Ron seemed to be the only ones who noticed.

“Ah, come on!” Ron yelled from beside him, “he can't play like that!”

Blood was dripping heavily from the Seeker's nose, but he didn't falter for a moment on his broom. Moments later, when Lynch dove towards the pitch, Krum was hot on his tail. “HE'S SEEN THE SNITCH!” Harry screamed, his Omnioculars trained fully on the graceful, powerful form of the Bulgarian Seeker as he aimed his broom almost directly at the ground.

The two Seekers got closer and closer to the ground, and Harry's heart was in his throat.

Lynch hit the grass with a sickening crunch, Krum pulled up at the last second, and it was all over. In Krum's outstretched hand was the glittering, fluttering form of the Snitch.

Harry's eyes flew to the scoreboard.

Krum had caught the Snitch, but Ireland had won the match. He didn't know how Fred and George had done it, but they'd gotten it right.

Beside him, the twins surged to their feet, yelling and whooping in excitement.

Harry remained in his seat, cheeks aching from the wide smile spread across his face, and heart still pounding from the intensity of the match. Aside from actually playing Quidditch himself, he'd never felt quite so alive in his life.


	5. The Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the timeline of the Goblet of Fire Chapters Nine, Ten, and Eleven.

The appearance of Death Eaters in the early hours of the morning changed things completely. The excitement and elation of the previous night was swept away in an instant, replaced with cold fear, and for the first time in his life, Harry felt he had an inkling into the kind of world his parents had lived in.

One where no place was safe, no joy untainted, and no person untouchable.

The fact that Sirius and Remus had begun to distrust one another – which Harry had never really understood before – suddenly made an awful kind of sense. Nothing could get inside your head, poison your mind, make you doubt everything quite like fear. Especially when that fear came in the form of anonymous, masked figures in the middle of the night.

Harry didn't fall back to sleep for the rest of the night; the image of the Muggle campsite owner and his family being levitated above hooded figures was burned into his mind, replaying over and over whenever he closed his eyes. The image jumbled together with the cry of _Morsmordre_ , the glittering, green skull and serpent, the screams of terror, and Malfoy's cold, cruel smirk. “If you think they can't spot a Mudblood,” he'd said, and Harry's blood had run cold. The threat in his words had been as clear as it had in second year: “you'll be next, Mudbloods”. If Harry's worst fears – his dreams – came true, Hermione would have a target on her back just as large as Harry's own.

Mr Weasley didn't appear to have slept either, and he had them all up and out of the tent at the first light of dawn. It seemed everyone at the campsite had had the same idea, because the poor Portkey wizard was already surrounded when they got there; wizards and witches were clamouring in various languages, trying to get out as quickly as possible.

Mr Weasley flashed his Ministry badge – something Harry knew he would never normally do – and returned to them moments later with an old tyre.

“Amos is staying behind, so no need to wait,” he said, “everyone grab on.”

Harry landed uncomfortably on his rear end at the top of Stoatshead Hill, and was pulled to his feet by an uncharacteristically grim-looking George. The twins fell into step either side of him, their arms brushing against his in companionable silence as they made their way down the slippery hillside.

No one spoke on the walk back to the Burrow, and Harry was grateful for it.

As they rounded the corner onto the lane, the Burrow came into view and a loud cry echoed through the cold morning air.

“Oh, thank goodness!”

Mrs Weasley came flying across the front garden towards them, wrapped in an old dressing gown, slippers on her feet, and her face tear-stained. She paused only long enough to ascertain that all of them were present and accounted for, before throwing herself into Mr Weasley's arms, sobbing in great, heart-wrenching cries.

Mr Weasley's hand rubbed soothingly up and down Mrs Weasley's back, and despite the awfulness of the situation, the corner of Harry's mouth twitched up into a smile. He hoped, one day, he found someone who loved _him_ like that. Mr and Mrs Weasley must have been married at least twenty years, and they didn't seem bored of each other, or annoyed by one another. In fact, most of the time, they still acted like teenagers in love.

Eventually, Mrs Weasley calmed down enough to let go of her husband, and threw herself at her children, instead. “Oh, my boys!” she cried, “and Ginny! I'm so glad you're all okay!” Hermione had the good sense to step backwards, but Harry wasn't quick enough and found himself crushed between Fred and George as Mrs Weasley tried to hug all three of them at once. Despite the fact that he couldn't breathe, Harry felt safer there than he had anywhere in a long time.

While Fred and George croaked that she was strangling them, Harry just smiled; maybe this was what it felt like to have a mum.

When they were all safely ensconced in the Burrow's cosy kitchen, Hermione and Charlie busied themselves making everyone cups of tea. Mrs Weasley had been pulled onto Mr Weasley's lap at the head of the table. Bill was dishing up the breakfast Mrs Weasley had cooked up for them, and Ron was doing his level best to eat it the moment it appeared.

Fred snatched a plate of toast directly from Bill's hand and placed two slices on Harry's plate before Ron could get his hands on it. Moments later, George appeared with a bowl of porridge, and Harry smiled gratefully at them both. He'd been too excited to eat much for dinner the night before, and now his stomach was starting to ache a little. The ache brought back horrible images of the cupboard and his aunt and uncle, so he tucked into his food with gusto, trying to will away the panic that was slowly building in his chest.

Four slices of toast and two bowls of porridge later, the ache in his stomach was of a different variety altogether, and the panic had dissipated back to the low-level thrum he was used to.

The next week passed in a much more sedate manner than the days before the World Cup. Mr Weasley and Percy were at work more often than not – “It's been absolute uproar,” was Percy's summation of how the Ministry were handling things – and Fred and George had yet to play a single prank on anyone, though they did spend a fair amount of time hidden away in their bedroom.

The twins appeared for mealtimes and whenever Harry knocked to ask them for a game of Quidditch, but even that was becoming less frequent as the weather took a turn for the worse and it rained unceasingly most days.

Harry had been looking forward to a trip to Diagon Alley, if only to get out of the house for a bit, but Mr and Mrs Weasley had decreed it 'unsafe'. Instead, Bill, Charlie, and Mrs Weasley had gone together and come back with all the necessary supplies for the coming school year, and all he had to do was pack it into his trunk.

“What's _that_ supposed to be?” Ron said, making a noise of disgust.

Harry tucked his broomstick servicing kit in beside his Quidditch gear and turned around to see what Ron was looking at. He was holding up a large, lacy, maroon velvet dress; it looked slightly moth-eaten and had an odd, mouldy scent emanating from it.

“Mum! You've given me Ginny's new dress!”

Harry snorted. There was no way Ginny would get within ten feet of that awful dress.

Mrs Weasley appeared in the doorway, basket full of clean clothes on her hip, looking harassed. “What, dear? Of course I haven't. They're for you. Dress robes.”

Harry tried very hard to school his expression, but from Mrs Weasley's disapproving glare, he was unsuccessful.

“I'm not wearing _those_!”

“Pack them, Ronald, or you can go naked for all I care.”

With that, Mrs Weasley was gone, and Ron angrily stuffed the admittedly awful robes right to the bottom of his trunk. When Harry found the robes Mrs Weasley had bought him – a tasteful, bottle-green set – he hurriedly packed them before Ron got a look at them.

By the time they finally got onto the Hogwarts Express, Harry was exhausted.

He'd written to Sirius immediately after the World Cup, but hadn't heard back from him yet, and his nightmares were increasing in both severity and frequency. None were as vivid as the one he'd had at the Dursleys, but they were all awful and terrifying in their own right. He'd not told Ron and Hermione about them, but with what happened at the World Cup and with no response from his godfather, Harry needed to tell _someone._

The trio settled into their compartment, and Harry had just summoned the courage to say something when Fred and George burst through the door.

“I'd, ah, avoid the Prefects' carriage for a bit, if I were you.”

“Looks like a bombs gone off in there!”

“Which it did –” George cut off abruptly. “What's up, Harry?”

George's smile fell from his face and he sat down beside Harry, a crease forming between his eyebrows. Fred took one look at them and settled himself between Ron and Hermione on the other side of the carriage.

He'd only really intended to tell Ron and Hermione, but the twins had been great all summer. They'd defended him against the Dursleys, cheered him up with pranks, and played Quidditch even when no one else wanted to. He met Ron's eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. Ron shrugged, then nodded. The twins were troublemakers, but they could be trusted.

“There's something I haven't really mentioned,” he said. “Before you picked me up from the Dursleys, I had a dream – a nightmare, really – and woke up with my scar hurting.”

Hermione and Ron reacted immediately: Hermione started suggesting adults Harry should tell and planning a trip to the Hogwarts' library, and Ron looked horrified.

“But – ” he said, in between Hermione blurting out book titles, “he wasn't _there_ , was he?”

“Who?” Fred snapped. “Who wasn't where?”

“Well, the last time Harry's scar kept hurting, it was because You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts.”

Fred and George's mouths fell open.

“At Hogwarts? You-Know-Who?”

“He's dead, isn't he?”

Harry'd forgotten that the whole Quirrell-possessed-by-Voldemort incident wasn't widely known. Now he'd have to explain that, as well.

“Uh, not dead, no. He possessed Quirrell and lived in the back of his head all year,” Harry said, quickly, bracing himself for looks of horror or, worse, pity.

The twins' reactions were the opposite of what he'd been expecting. Slow, wicked smirks spread across their faces, and they leaned across the carriage to high-five one another.

“Nice one, Fred.”

“Good one, George!”

Noticing that the trio were staring at them in disbelief, George grinned. “Well, we charmed snowballs to bounce of the back of Quirrell's turban, didn't we? It was funny at the time, sure, but now we know that it was You-Know-Who we were hitting...”

“Not quite the same as defeating him as a baby,” Fred added, bowing dramatically towards Harry, “but we're happy to do our bit.”

The mood lightened considerably after that, even though Hermione did press on with a few more questions about the dream he'd had.

“He was with Wormtail –” Ron made a disgusted sound, and Harry smiled, grateful for his support. “I can't remember it all now, but they were plotting to kill –” Harry cut himself off, shrugging as if he was vague on the details, “someone.” _Me, they were plotting to kill me._ After the situations he seemed to find himself in every year, the 'me' seemed to be implied, but he knew saying it out loud would only upset Hermione more than she already was.

“It was only a dream,” Ron said, though he didn't sound as if he really believed it.

“I'm not sure,” Harry admitted. “It's weird, isn't it. I have that dream, and a few days later, there's Death Eaters at the World Cup and Voldemort's mark is seen for the first time in thirteen years...” Everyone beside Hermione flinched at the name, but Harry pressed on. “And now my scar keeps hurting. I just – Something doesn't feel right.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but the door flew open and Neville stepped inside, followed by a grinning Dean and Seamus, who were still sporting green shamrocks from the World Cup. The talk immediately turned to Quidditch, and Hermione returned to her textbooks. Harry knew she hadn't let the topic go completely, but he was grateful for the temporary reprieve.

“The Wronski Feint,” Ron was saying, holding up his little figurine of Krum, who dutifully performed it. “He was brilliant! Yeah, Ireland won, but Lynch can't fly like that.”

“No one can fly like that,” Dean said. “Krum's one of a kind. But Ireland had the better team by miles.” Harry hadn't known Dean was an Ireland supporter but, he supposed, you kind of had to be if your boyfriend was Irish.

“Did you see that save by Ryan? Practically upside down on his broom, holding on with his legs, Bludger coming right at him, and he _still_ caught the Quaffle. Didn't see Zograf making any saves like that.”

“Didn't see him making any saves at all, more like.”

Harry settled back in his seat, grinning at his friends, and enjoyed the playful banter and enthusiastic reliving of the match that bubbled up around him. The World Cup had been amazing – sans Death Eaters – and the Burrow had been lovely, but _this_ – his friends, his dorm mates, _Hogwarts_ – was his home. And he was glad to be coming home.


	6. The Welcoming Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the timeline of Goblet of Fire Chapter Twelve.

The weather had turned from overcast to driving, icy rain by the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, and the short walk to the carriages had them wet down to their underwear, the cold seeping into their bones.

Soaked through from the torrential rain, all eight of them trudged up the steps into the Hogwarts entrance hall, water running in rivulets across their faces and shoes squelching uncomfortably.

“Blimey,” said Ron, shaking his head like a dog and sending water flying into Hermione's face. “If it keeps this up – ARGH!”

A balloon filled with water had fallen from the ceiling and broken open on Ron's head, soaking him through more effectively than even the weather outside. Beside him, Fred and George chuckled.

“Good evening, Peeves!” they greeted, cheerfully, and a wicked cackle sounded from the eaves. They darted up the rest of the staircase, narrowly avoiding a number of water balloons, while Peeves cackled and squealed above them.

Before they stepped into the Great Hall, Harry was sure he saw Fred slip something to the poltergeist, but if something _did_ happen, Harry thought it was likely better if he could plead ignorance.

“Come here, Harry,” muttered George, pulling his wand from his pocket. He gently grabbed Harry's arm and turned him around. A muttered drying charm later, and Harry felt as though he'd been sitting in front of the fire for hours. Even his socks and shoes were warm and dry, and his skin was no longer cold and clammy.

“Thanks, George.” He grinned at the red-head, and George smiled back as he cast the charm on himself.

“No worries, Harry. Mum'd have my head if we let you get sick.”

Harry chuckled. Mrs Weasley was a formidable force, and he had no doubt she'd told the twins to 'look after him' or some rubbish. The fact that she cared made his chest feel a little bit warmer, even if he really didn't need looking after.

The eight of them made their way down the Hall to their usual space on the Gryffindor table, and Harry quickly found himself sandwiched between the twins, while Ron, Hermione, and Neville sat opposite. Dean and Seamus settled themselves next to Hermione, but paid little attention to anyone besides each other, making Hermione's cheeks pink with embarrassment.

“Where's the new Defence teacher?” Harry muttered, looking curiously at the staff table. All the usual teachers were accounted for, save for Hagrid and McGonagall, who would be off handling the First Years, but there was an empty place where Lupin had sat just a few months ago.

“Maybe they couldn't get anyone,” Ron said, shrugging. “Hope they hurry up with the sorting, I'm starved. I could eat a hippogriff.”

Harry and Hermione made eye contact, pictured Buckbeak, and snorted.

At that moment, the doors swung open to reveal Professor McGonagall and a very waterlogged Hagrid leading a drenched and terrified group of First Years into the Hall.

“Ickle firsties!” crowed Fred, rubbing his hands together maliciously.

“They get smaller every year,” muttered George, “though Harry here was still the smallest I've ever seen.”

Harry felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he couldn't very well argue. He'd found some of his old Hogwarts uniform at the bottom of his trunk over the summer, and the robes looked like they wouldn't have fit a six year old. They certainly wouldn't fit any of the children currently huddled in front of the Sorting Hat.

As they watched the sorting – clapping for anything but Slytherin – Harry's stomach started to growl. They were only at “Creevey, Dennis”, so they had a fair way to go before everyone was sorted at the feast could begin, but already the hunger was setting off waves of anxiety. He curled his hands into fists under the table, feeling his nails dig into his palms as he tried to focus on anything but the emptiness in his stomach.

George slipped his hand inside his robes, then pressed something warm and dry into Harry's hands. He looked down; he was holding a pumpkin pasty.

He looked up at George, eyebrow cocked. Everyone knew better than to take food from the twins; he was likely to end up naked in front of the whole hall or, worse, dramatically professing his love for Snape. Harry shuddered and passed the food back to George, ignoring the way his stomach clenched. Giving up food went against every instinct he had, and he felt anxiety spike uncomfortably in his chest.

George pushed it back to him. “I've not messed with it. I swear.”

That didn't mean _Fred_ hadn't messed with it. Harry was hungry, but he wasn't stupid.

“Fawley, Patrick” made his way up to the Hat, his little face almost pale with fright, and Harry watched studiously, clapping when he was sorted into Hufflepuff.

The pasty was placed on his lap, and this time Fred nudged him.

“We haven't touched it, Harry. It's just food. Eat it.”

Harry's stomach clenched again, but he shook his head.

Fred leaned closer, his lips brushing against Harry's unruly curls. “We know what you're like with food, Harry. We'd never mess with anything you eat. Please, just eat it.”

On his other side, George leaned in, trapping him firmly between the two, and Harry felt his resolve crumble. He leaned down, his forehead almost brushing against the table, and quickly shovelled the pasty into his mouth in three, quick mouthfuls.

When, thirty seconds later, nothing had happened, he slowly raised his head in time to see “McDonald, Natalie” become the newest member of Gryffindor.

“Told you,” George whispered, and from the corner of his eye, Harry could see him grinning. He smiled back.

“Thank you.”

The Welcoming Feast was absolutely delicious, as usual; Harry would never, ever be caught dead admitting it, but Hogwarts' food was even better than Mrs Weasley's cooking.

“You're lucky there was a feast at all tonight,” Nearly-Headless Nick was saying. “There was trouble in the kitchens earlier.”

“Why?” Harry asked, feeling faintly alarmed at the possibility of food becoming scarce even at Hogwarts. “What happened?”

“Peeves, of course,” he huffed. “Utterly uncivilised.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance over Harry's head, then deliberately launched into a monologue about their plans and latest products.

Harry let himself get swept away by their wild descriptions and ludicrous ideas, pushing the worry aside as he tucked into all three courses of hot, hearty food.

As he polished off a giant serving of treacle tart, Dumbledore got to his feet, and the buzz of chatter fell silent immediately.

“So,” he said, smiling benevolently out across the Hall, “now that we're all fed and watered, I must ask once more for your attention.” He ran through the usual notices – Mr Filch and his Very Long List of Banned Items, the Forbidden Forest was still forbidden, Hogsmeade was only for third year and up – which included Harry, this time, as Sirius had signed his permission slip... “It is also my duty to inform you all that the Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

Harry's heart dropped to his feet. No Quidditch. After everything that had happened this summer. After seeing Krum play. After the hours upon hours spend practising in the Weasley's orchard. No Quidditch.

Beside him, Fred and George were in a similar state of shock.

“Oliver must be rolling in his grave,” Fred muttered.

“He's not even dead, you idiot.”

From further down the table, Angelina leaned in. “He's right, you know. Even alive, Oliver's rolling in his grave. If he were still here, this news would finish him off.” She pulled a face, then let out a perfect imitation of Woods' thick, Scottish accent. “Quidditch or death!”

“This is due to an event,” Dumbledore pressed on, effectively silencing the mutinous whispers that had risen up, “that will be starting in October and continuing throughout the school year. I am sure that you will all enjoy it immensely. It gives me great pleasure to announce that, this year, Hogwarts will be hosting –”

There was a deafening crack of thunder, and the doors to the Great Hall flew open, the thick wood colliding with the immovable stone walls. Harry flinched backwards, but was caught by George's large hand on his back. He took a few deep breaths and, as his shoulders relaxed and his heart rate slowed, George's hand rubbed once along his spine. The move grounded him, and Harry looked up to see what had caused the commotion.

A man stood in the doorway, his silhouette briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning. He lowered his hood, gripped his wooden staff, then began limping heavily towards the staff table at the top of the Hall. As he passed, Harry got a glimpse of a heavily scarred face and a large, unsettling, false eye.

Dumbledore seemed unphased, greeting the man with a smile and a handshake, and directing him to Professor Lupin's empty chair.

“May I introduce you all to our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Dumbledore said, a smile still fixed on his face, “Professor Moody.”

The announcement met a stunned, almost fearful, silence as the students processed the man's dramatic entrance and terrifying appearance.

“Moody?” muttered Ron. “As in Mad-Eye Moody?”

“Mad-Eye Moody?” Harry asked. He had to admit, the name fit the man perfectly. He sat silently at the staff table, but his false eye was spinning ceaselessly in its cavity, seeming to take in the whole Hall without the man having to move a single muscle.

“He used to be the best Auror in the Ministry,” George whispered. “A Dark Wizard catcher.”

“Half the cells in Azkaban are filled thanks to him. Mad as a hatter, these days, though. Retired years ago.”

“What happened to his _face_?” gasped Hermione, horrified.

Ron shrugged, though he was still watching Moody with rapt fascination. “Being an Auror's a dangerous job, innit? Fighting off Dark Wizards every day.”

When it became obvious that there would be no round of applause, Dumbledore cleared his throat. “As I was saying,” he said, wandering back to his podium, “Hogwarts has the honour of hosting a very important, very exciting, very _dangerous_ event. An event that has not been held for over a century. It is my great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

“You're JOKING!” said Fred, loudly.

The tension that had settled over the students at the arrival of Professor Moody burst abruptly as the Hall filled with titters and giggles at Fred's outburst. Even Dumbledore and McGonagall chuckled. Moody, Harry noticed, had no visible reaction at all.

“I am not joking, Mr Weasley. That is, as I hear it, _your_ forte.”

Fred winked and saluted the Headmaster, and McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

“Where was I? Ah, yes... The Triwizard Tournament. The Tournament was established seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three European schools of wizardry –”

Ron snorted. “Friendly? That's likely. About as friendly as us and the Slytherins, they are.”

Harry, who hadn't even known there _were_ other schools, had to take Ron's word for it.

“One champion is selected from each school, and those three champions compete in three tasks. So, rest assured, most of you will simply be able to sit back and enjoy the show. The Tournament, at it's inception, was designed to take place once every five years, and this continued until the late nineteenth century when, regrettably, the death toll got too high, and the Tournament was abolished.”

“ _Death toll_?” Hermione hissed, appalled, “that's barbaric!” And while Harry agreed wholeheartedly with her assessment, it was not an opinion that seemed to be shared by the school at large. Excited whispers had broken out across the Hall, and the general consensus seemed to be that they couldn't wait to put their names forward to be the school champion.

“Our Ministry has worked hard to ensure that, in this Tournament, no contestant will find themselves in mortal danger. The Heads of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will arrive in October with their delegations, and the selection of Champions will take place at Hallowe'en. The three who are chosen will then compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and one thousand Galleons.”

At the mention of the prize money, Fred and George's eyes lit up, and Harry's heart sank. Dumbledore's platitudes about mortal danger meant little to him when he himself had faced mortal danger every year he'd attended the school – and that was _without_ the help of a deadly tournament.

“I'm going for it,” said Fred, firmly, and on Harry's other side, George nodded in agreement. Harry sent up a prayer to whoever might be listening that neither of them were chosen. He'd sooner hand over the thousand Galleons himself and save himself – and poor Mrs Weasley – the heart attack that was sure to come from either twin competing.

“Eager though I know you all are to bring the glory to Hogwarts, the Heads of the participating schools and the Ministry of Magic have agreed to impose an age restriction on all contestants. Only students who are of age prior to Hallowe'en of this year may put their names forward for consideration.”

The Weasley twins – and several others across the Hall – exploded in outrage at the announcement. Harry, on the other hand, felt a weight lift from his shoulders. With the potential exception of a few members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, no one he cared about would be able to compete. Finally, something was happening at Hogwarts that he could just watch from the sidelines.

Dumbledore waited patiently for a few minutes, then clapped his hands loudly to restore order. “It is late, and I know how important it is that you are all alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning.” Harry saw him eye Snape slyly as he said this, and muffled a laugh in his hand. “So to all of you I say goodnight!”

McGonagall swept down to direct the First Years to the relevant Prefects, and Harry, Hermione, and Neville rose from the table to head up to the common room, but the Weasleys stayed stubbornly seated.

“They can't do that!” said George, glaring at Dumbledore. “We're seventeen in April.”

“They're not stopping me entering,” muttered Fred, mutinously, and Harry's heart lurched. He knew that look. Once Fred set his mind to something, nothing and no one would sway him until he achieved his goal. Harry only hoped that whatever restrictions and laws they'd drawn up, they were completely airtight, because if there was a single crack or loophole, Fred Weasley would find it. And then he would enter his name in the Tournament.

Ron was watching them avidly, and Harry knew that if they found a way around the rules, Ron would be right there alongside them, submitting his name for consideration as well.

He'd have thought a few near-death experiences would have put Ron off having another one, but Ron always had been a bit more blasé about it all.

“What about you, Harry?” Ron asked, grinning, as he finally got up from the table.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. He already _had_ eternal glory and far more Galleons than he knew what to do with, but saying that out loud would sound conceited. “Dunno,” he muttered, non-committally, “reckon I've had enough near-death experiences.”

The twins wrapped their arms around his shoulders as they headed out of the Hall with the last of the stragglers. “Too right, Harry,” Fred said. “So you just sit this one out. Let us get all the glory, eh?”

While the idea of the twins in danger didn't appeal in the least, the idea of someone else getting all the attention for once sounded _brilliant_. “Yeah,” he agreed, readily, “by all means.”

The rest of the walk to the tower was filled with increasingly wild speculation on what kind of challenges the champions might face.

“Werewolves,” suggested Fred, “or Acromantulas.”

Ron shuddered at the mention of the giant spiders, and Harry wrinkled his nose. He'd faced both of those, and didn't much fancy a second run at either.

“A Nundu,” was George's guess, though Harry had no idea what one was.

“Dark Wizards,” said Ron, solemnly. “I bet that's why Moody's here.”

“Honestly,” huffed Hermione, “they're not going to let Dark Wizards out of Azkaban to fight students.”

Privately, Harry thought that if this was the kind of Tournament people died in, that was _exactly_ the kind of mad challenge they might have dreamt up, but he said nothing.

“Boggarts,” said Neville, his face pale. “Those are awful.”

The twins guffawed but, after facing one last year, Harry agreed with Neville. Boggarts became whatever a person feared the most, so what better way to test someone's mettle than to have them face their very worst fear?

They parted ways in the Gryffindor Common Room, and Harry traipsed up to his dorm with Neville and Ron. Dean and Seamus were already there, one bed empty, and the other with the hangings already spelled shut.

“I might go for it, y'know,” Ron said, yawning, as they changed into their pyjamas. “If Fred and George find out how to.”

“I might have to,” Neville whispered, “Gran would want me to, if I had the chance. To uphold the family honour.”

They both turned to look at Harry, who quickly tugged his top over his head and climbed into bed. “I s'pose,” he muttered, turning out his light. Thankfully, Ron and Neville seemed to get the hint.

Harry rolled over in the dark, eyes open, and did not sleep for a very long time.


	7. The New Professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the timeline of Chapter Thirteen.  
> Contains some events and direct quotes from the original book.

The first few days of school seemed to wipe the topic of the Triwizard Tournament from everybody's minds; instead, the words on everyone's lips seemed to be “Professor Moody”.

Harry had yet to have a Defence lesson – honestly, he'd been somewhat dreading the subject in the absence of Professor Lupin – but the whispers in the common room and hallways ranged from hero-worship to outright terror when it came to the new Professor.

“Do you really think he'd curse a student?” Harry asked, eyeing the second-year Ravenclaw girl who was animatedly telling her friends all about the 'curses' Professor Moody had apparently put on a classmate.

“Probably. He's mentally unhinged,” Ron said, “even Dad thinks so.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Ron, do you think Dumbledore would have hired him if he were really that bad?”

In unison, Ron and Harry turned to face her, disbelief written across their faces.

“Mione, Dumbledore hired Snape, who hates everyone, Trelawney, who's a fraud,” Ron ticked off the teachers on his fingers, “Quirrell, who had You-Know-Who in his turban, Lockhart, who was a fraud, Filch, who wants to torture students, and Hagrid. Hagrid's great, but he's mental, and those bloody Blast-ended Skrewts of his are going to kill someone. Not to mention Norbert, Fluffy, and _the giant spiders_.”

She huffed. “Well, I suppose –”

“Oi! Weasley!”

The trio spun around to see Malfoy leaning against a pillar, grinning maliciously. Crabbe and Goyle hovered behind him like vaguely-sentient boulders, gormless expressions on their meaty faces.

“Have you seen?” Malfoy asked, brandishing a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , “Your dad's in the paper!”

Harry had an immediate, sinking feeling, and it appeared Hermione had a similar sense of foreboding, because she grabbed the back of Ron's robes and tried to pull him towards the Great Hall. Harry could already smell the warm, delicious scent of food wafting out into the Entrance Hall, and all he wanted was to sit down and eat it.

Malfoy turned the paper to display a rather unflattering photo of Mr Weasley from the night of the World Cup, cleared his throat, and began to read the article aloud.

“ _The Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office._ Oh, Weasley, this _is_ good! They can't even get his name right!”

Harry was momentarily surprised that Malfoy knew Ron's family well enough to even know whether the _Prophet_ had got Mr Weasley's first name right, but had little time to linger on the thought, as Malfoy kept reading. By this point, a crowd had started to gather as students from all over the castle arrived from their final lessons, and Ron's face was getting redder by the minute. Hermione was still grasping the back of his robes, but he doubted Ron had even noticed.

“ _Arnold Weasley was yesterday involved in a tussle with several members of Muggle law-enforcement over a number of highly aggressive dustbins._ Highly aggressive dustbins? My word, Weasley, your father really does get the lowest jobs on the pole, doesn't he?” Malfoy's lips curled in a sneer, as if disgusted by the mere _mention_ of a dustbin. He'd probably never seen one in his life; people like Malfoy had elves for things like that. “ _Arnold Weasley was forced to modify the memory of several Muggles, but refused to answer questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and embarrassing scene_.”

Harry thought it should be fairly obvious to everyone why Mr Weasley had been involved in the removal of enchanted dustbins from a Muggle area, given that he worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, but he didn't have chance to say so.

“ _Undignified and embarrassing_ , Weasley,” Malfoy sneered. “The _Prophet_ have got it in one. I think they've summed up your whole family nicely. And there's even a picture!” Malfoy flipped the paper over and held it up for the whole crowd to see. “Your parents outside their – hmm, you call that a _house_? I wouldn't give a building like that to my elves, but I suppose when you're poor...” Malfoy trailed off, eyes glittering viciously, a little smirk on his lips. “And your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn't she?”

Ron was shaking with fury, and Hermione's hand tightened further.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, scared of what might come of of his mouth – or wand – if he let himself say any more. “C'mon, Ron.”

Malfoy suddenly seemed to notice that Harry was there, and his eyes lit up with glee. “You've met her, haven't you, Potter? Tell me, is she really that fat, or is it just the picture?”

Harry felt something snap inside him. His hand joined Hermione's on the back of Ron's robes as his whole body lurched towards Malfoy.

“I've also met _your_ mother, Malfoy,” he spat, rage bubbling inside his chest like molten lava. “That expression she's got, like she's got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or is it just because you were with her?”

Malfoy flinched, and Harry smirked with satisfaction. “Keep my mother out of this.”

“Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” Harry retorted, turning away.

_BANG!_

Several people in the crowd screamed, and Harry felt something white hot sear his left cheek. He snatched his wand out of his robe pocket, but before he had the chance to draw it, he heard a second loud crack, and a roar that echoed through the Entrance Hall.

“OH, NO, YOU DON'T!”

Harry spun around to see Professor Moody limping furiously down the large staircase, his wand out and pointing directly at a small, white ferret, which was cowering on the flagstone flooring where Malfoy had been standing moments earlier.

The crowd of students had fallen into awed – or terrified – silence. Nobody was speaking or moving; all eyes were fixed on the professor and the ferret.

With a flick of his wand, the squealing ferret flew ten feet into the air, fell with a smack to the floor, then bounced upwards once more. As angry as Harry was, he couldn't help but flinch each time Malfoy hit the floor with a crunch and a scream of pain. He'd been waiting _years_ for someone to put the blonde git in his place but, now that it was happening, he found he was getting very little satisfaction from the proceedings.

“I'll teach you not to curse someone when their back is turned!” Moody roared, bouncing the ferret madly around the hall. “Pathetic, despicable, cowardly thing to do!”

His words were set to an uncomfortable background of high-pitched squeaks and the awful thud of the ferret's small body meeting the castle's stone floors.

Finally, a voice cut through Moody's ranting and Malfoy's screams.

“Professor Moody!” McGonagall swept down the staircase, shock written all over her face. “What are you doing?”

“Teaching,” Moody growled, never ceasing the bouncing of the now-whimpering ferret.

“Teach–” McGonagall blanched. “Is that a _student_?”

“Technically, it's a ferret.”

McGonagall whipped out her wand so quickly Harry was barely able to follow the movement, and on Malfoy's next downward bounce, rapidly transformed him back into himself.

The blonde lay, hair mussed and eyes filled with tears, panting on the flagstone flooring. Harry felt an unwelcome pang of sympathy for the Slytherin; he'd been in his place one too many times, though never in front of such a large audience.

Gryffindor's Head of House glared poisonously at the new Defence professor. “We give detentions, or we speak to the student's Head of House. We _never_ use magical or physical punishments.”

Malfoy scrambled to his feet, though he was still trembling with pain, and Harry was grateful when McGonagall hurried forwards to help him. “All of you!” she said, her voice carrying easily over the silent crowd, “continue into to the Great Hall. Now.”

As the students dispersed, Harry watched McGonagall escort Malfoy in the direction of the Hospital Wing before following Ron and Hermione into the Great Hall.

“Don't talk to me,” Ron muttered, as they made their way to the Gryffindor table, “I want to fix that memory in my mind forever. Draco Malfoy, the amazing, bouncing ferret.”

Harry and Hermione shared wry glances, but Ron was too busy shovelling food into his face to notice.

Moments later, Fred plopped himself down beside Harry at the Gryffindor table, grinning, but his expression rapidly slid into one of anger.

“What happened?” He sounded furious, and Harry flinched.

He opened his mouth to explain what Malfoy had said and what Moody had done when Fred grabbed his chin, forcibly tilting his head upwards at an awkward angle. “What's this?”

Confused and alarmed by Fred's mood and the manhandling, Harry struggled in Fred's grip. The wave of fear that normally accompanied unexpected touch was mostly absent, but Harry could still feel the first twinges of anxiety flaring in his chest. “What's _what_?” he mumbled, unable to move his jaw properly.

“Harry,” George said from across the table, “you've got a graze on your cheek. A bad one.” His voice hitched oddly, and Harry's hand flew up to his face. He winced as his fingers encountered a deep, sticky wound.

“Malfoy,” he realised. “He cursed me.” How had he not noticed before that the spell had actually done him damage? Until George had pointed it out, he hadn't even felt it. Now, the sharp, stinging pain flooded his senses.

George fished a bottle out of his bag and handed it to Fred, who gently spread a few drops of the silky, green potion over Harry's cheekbone, his jaw tight. “Please tell me you got him back.”

“No, I –”

“Moody did!” Ron crowed. “Turned the little prick into a ferret!”

Without further prompting, Ron launched into a rather animated recount of 'Draco Malfoy, the amazing, bouncing ferret', which soon captured the attention of the surrounding Gryffindors despite the fact that most of them had witnessed it first hand. Fred softly ran his fingers over Harry's tingling cheek and, seemingly satisfied that he was healed, passed the potion bottle back to George.

“He kept going until McGonagall stopped him! She was furious, but Moody didn't even apologise! How cool is he?”

“Very,” Fred said, an edge to his voice.

“Beyond cool,” George agreed. “We had him this afternoon.”

Harry, who was now looking forward to his first Defence lesson with even more trepidation than before, turned to look at him. “What was it like?”

The twins exchanged a glance with Lee and Angelina, who would have been in the same lesson. “Never had a lesson like it,” George admitted, but the way he smiled made it sound like that was a good thing. Harry was slightly reassured by that, even with the horrible sounds of ferret-Malfoy's screams echoing in his mind.

“He _knows_ ,” Lee agreed.

“He's really been there,” Angelina added. “Unlike Lockhart.”

That drew chuckles from everyone, and even Harry couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Moody might be terrifying, but he was still better than Lockhart. He felt a foot nudge his under the table, and George grinned.

“So, Harry, how was Trelawney today? Any more predictions of death?”

As grateful as he was for the change of subject, Harry groaned and dropped his head onto the table. “Not yet.” This had become somewhat of a running joke last year, with all of them taking bets on how many times Trelawney would predict his death and via what methods.

Fred nudged him playfully. “There's time yet! How many did she make last year?”

“Thirty-seven,” Ron piped up. It was easy for _him_ to laugh about it; Trelawney had never bothered predicting his messy end.

“I wager she'll hit fifty this year.”

“She'll have to get more creative with the methods, though. That Grim thing was getting a bit old.”

And just like that, Harry felt the weight lift off his chest as a bubble of laughter burst out of his mouth. God, Trelawney really was mad as a hatter, wasn't she? All last year, she'd been predicting death by giant, black dog. He'd have to remember to tell Sirius about that next time he heard from him, he'd get a kick out of it.

“It was at that,” Harry agreed. “I'd rather she go for something a bit cooler – a dragon, perhaps?”

“Death by dragon.” Lee whistled appreciatively, and Harry wondered if he'd ever met Charlie. “What a way to go.”

“A tragic accident involving Blast-ended Skrewts, hippogriff dung, and a large statue of Boris the Bewildered,” suggested Fred.

“She's not _that_ creative.” Ron rolled his eyes. “Though the Blast-ended Skrewts are a definite possibility. One nearly took Dean's hand off.”

“It'll be death by undetectable poison if you don't finish that essay for Potions,” Hermione snarked, and Harry thought she was only partially joking. Snape would probably take great pleasure in giving Harry a slow and painful death for any minor or imagined infraction he could come up with.

“Attempted murder by a professor,” George said. “That's what I'm betting on.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “For Trelawney to predict? Or to actually happen? Because given my track record, both are distinct possibilities.”

If anyone heard him, they gave no indication. George's words had triggered a flurry of activity from the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and Lee, and a stack of gold and silver coins quickly appeared on the table.

Fred whipped out a sheet of parchment and flourished his wand dramatically. “If Trelawney predicts it, you get double your money. And, hell, if it happens, we'll give you triple. What's your bet?”

Lee bet fifteen sickles on danger of death by dragon. George stuck with his bet of attempted murder by a member of the teaching staff, putting a galleon on it. Fred amended his bet to two galleons on a near-death experience by 'a dangerous creature of any kind', though Lee argued that he couldn't include dragons in that, as he'd already bet on it. Angelina put ten sickles on drowning, and Katie and Alicia bet a galleon each on falling from a great height and fire.

The last, unexpected bet came from Ron.

He pulled two sickles out of his robes and placed them on the table in front of Fred. “You-Know-Who.”

The table fell silent as everyone stared at Ron in disbelief.

Horrible as it was, the situation suddenly struck Harry as very, very funny. Before he could stop it, a choked laugh escaped his mouth, rapidly chased by an uncontrollable chuckle. Ron looked alarmed for a moment, then joined in helplessly as Harry's fit of giggles continued. Fred and George, Hermione, and Lee soon followed. Eventually, the whole table was laughing uproariously, tears in some of their eyes, and dinner all but forgotten.


	8. The Killing Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Mostly) follows the timeline of Goblet of Fire Chapter Fourteen.

The betting continued in the Common Room, where Fred and George had set up a massive chalkboard in one corner. _PREDICT HIS PERIL_ was written across the top, and a table had been drawn up with magically-updating predictions and odds.

“Place your bets!” called Fred. “What method of death will Trelawney predict for the great Harry Potter this year?”

Harry rolled his eyes and slumped lower in his armchair by the fire as more and more Gryffindors flocked over to place bets on what ridiculous things Trelawney might say next. Clearly, Ludo Bagman had been a poor influence on the both of them, because they hadn't been anywhere near this public – or official – with their betting schemes last year. The simple double- or triple-your-money outcome they'd promised at dinner had been abandoned, replaced with proper betting odds. Harry was pleased to note, however, that they stuck to taking bets on _predictions_ , this time, instead of offering a better return if the prediction was correct.

He was in half a mind to place a bet himself when Hermione sat down next to him, thumping a large pile of books onto the table. “Since I know for a fact you _haven't_ done Professor Snape's essay, I've brought you a few books to help.”

Harry eyed the large stack of books; he and Hermione had very different definitions of 'a few'. Seven, thick tomes sat on the table, and Harry had no doubt Hermione had used every single one of them in her essay. “Can I read yours?”

The bushy-haired witch raised an eyebrow in an uncomfortably accurate imitation of the Potions Master. “No, Harry. I read your Shrinking Solution essay and it was perfectly acceptable. There's no reason you can't write ten inches on the properties of murtlap essence without copying mine.”

There were several very good reasons, actually, though Harry didn't dare voice them. The main one being that Harry had been unconscionably bored at the Dursleys, whereas here he had far better things to be doing than writing an essay for Snape. Another being that Hermione had written him notes using words he understood in her perfectly clear handwriting; most of the potions texts at Hogwarts were impossible to interpret – at least, they were for Harry. Hermione seemed to have no such problem, given the rate she consumed books for both study and pleasure.

“Okay,” Harry conceded, “not the essay. But can I at least read your notes? You word things much better than –” Harry tilted his head to read the name of the books' authors, “Reubens Winikus or Zygmunt Budge. I _understand_ things when you explain them.”

The flattery seemed to do the trick, and Hermione handed over four sheaves of parchment covered in her own notes and diagrams. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said, grinning, “you're a lifesaver.”

She rolled her eyes, but he could tell she was pleased. “Well,” she said, “at least you're doing some work.” Her eyes flicked over to the edge of the common room, where a huddle of students including Ron, the twins, Dean and Seamus, and Lee had stopped taking bets and were now messing around with what looked like miniature indoor fireworks. “Those idiots are going to burn themselves, you know.”

Harry nodded, because it was always wise to agree with Hermione, but he kept an eye on them out of the corner of his eye as he worked on his essay. Both of the twins picked up lit fireworks, tossing them back and forth between them, and Harry tensed. But they just kept laughing, apparently impervious to the sparks flying off the tiny Catherine Wheels. Harry smiled. Clearly, they were more brilliant than Hermione gave them credit for.

When Thursday lunchtime rolled around, the atmosphere amongst the Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth years was tense with anticipation. Three solid days of hearing rumours ranging from the mundane to the outright absurd, plus the bouncing ferret incident – which had spread around the school like wildfire – had built the anticipation to a fever pitch.

Despite the twins' reassurances, Harry remained unconvinced as to Moody's sanity or fitness as a teacher, but Ron thought he was just upset that Professor Lupin had left.

“Look, mate,” he said, as he stuffed a bread roll into his pocket and prepared to leave the Hall unusually early, “I know Lupin's practically your godfather. He was brilliant. But this is _Mad-Eye Moody_.”

“I'm just saying, there's a reason the Aurors retired him.” Eyeing his plate anxiously, Harry resigned himself to leaving his lunch unfinished. He would just have to eat a bit more at dinner to make up for it. There was hardly anyone at the Gryffindor table, so Harry had no reason not to accompany Ron up to the Defence classroom a full fifteen minutes before the lesson was due to start.

Ron shouldered his bag and Harry's, and was heading for the door before Harry even stood up. Grabbing one last mouthful of his sandwich, he hurried after his best mate, who was obliviously extolling the many virtues of the ex-Auror. “And besides,” Ron said, chewing a large mouthful of bread, “he's got to be better than Snape.”

Harry had to concede that point; any teacher was better than Snape, in his opinion.

Harry's carefully-written summer essay – which even Hermione had described as 'perfectly acceptable' – had been returned to him at the start of this morning's lesson with a large, red D at the top. ' _You failed to complete the required brewing_ ' the note said, and Harry couldn't dispute that, though he still hadn't worked out how Snape had known.

“I think Snape's a bit scared of him,” Harry said. “I thought he'd go mental when he found out what Moody did to Malfoy.” Snape was notoriously protective of his pet Slytherin; when Malfoy had been injured by Buckbeak last year, he had been livid. Every Potions lesson for the remainder of the year had included barbs and insults aimed at Hagrid, and every mealtime had seen the two professors sitting at opposite ends of the table. This morning's Potions lesson, however, had seen no mention at all of Moody, and Malfoy had received no special treatment despite his injuries. There had also been no hide nor hair of Lucius Malfoy sweeping in to demand 'justice' for his son, which struck Harry as very odd indeed.

“I bet he's jealous. Got passed over for the Dark Arts job, again, didn't he?”

As they neared the classroom, they were joined by a breathless Hermione, clutching what looked like half of Hogwarts' library in her arms. “Good lunch?” she asked, brightly. “I'm sorry I missed you, I've been in the –”

“Library,” Harry finished, grinning. “How many classes are you taking this year, Hermione?”

“Not as many as last year,” she huffed. “But Ancient Runes is an incredibly complicated subject. Awfully useful, though, if you need to translate old texts or create your own spells.”

Harry couldn't say he was particularly interested in reading dusty, old tomes in a different language, but spell creation was fascinating; Fred and George used their own spells to create joke products, and the Marauders' Map was based on Runes attached to magical signatures. If he didn't find reading and essays quite so difficult, maybe he'd have chosen Ancient Runes instead of Divination. At least it would have been useful.

They entered the classroom ten minutes early and, out of force of habit, sat in the same seats they'd been in last year. The room had a dark, oppressive atmosphere that had been absent last term, and a large array of strange-looking objects surrounded Moody's desk. Most were still and silent, but a few gave occasional ticks and whirs that set Harry's teeth on edge.

The room was full well before the lesson officially began – Harry noted that Malfoy was flanked by his cronies in the back corner of the classroom – and the moment everyone was seated, the door slammed shut, making them all jump.

Moody's distinctive, clunking footsteps echoed through the room long before the man himself appeared, limping steadily through the doorway from his office.

“Right then,” he said, as he reached his desk, “last year you covered creatures. Very thoroughly, from what your previous Professor has told me. But you're behind – woefully behind – on curses. I've got one year to teach you –”

Harry looked up from his parchment in surprise. Everyone _knew_ the Defence position was cursed, of course, but no teacher had ever admitted outright that they wouldn't last beyond the end of the year.

 _'Only a year?'_ Harry mouthed to Ron, who shrugged and started to write something on a spare corner of parchment.

They both flinched when Moody abruptly clapped his twisted hands together.

“Curses!” he barked, his fake eye whirling around the classroom. “Now, I'm only supposed to teach you counter-curses. I'm not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like. I'm not supposed to teach you what you're up against.” Moody's magical eye seemed to fix on Malfoy as he said that, but Harry shook it off as a coincidence, since the eye was constantly spinning around to fix on different students. “But how are you supposed to defend yourself against something you've never seen before?”

Ron met Harry's gaze out of the corner of his eye and they both grinned. Harry successfully defended himself against things he'd never seen before on a yearly basis, but he didn't think it wise to mention that out loud. Harry shoved aside his gut instincts to distrust the new professor; if his dreams – which had reduced but not abated – were anything to go by, there was a good chance Harry and his friends would find themselves up against any number of illegal curses in the near future. If Moody, mad as he was, could prepare them for that, he would have Harry's eternal appreciation. The twins thought he was brilliant, and he already seemed more competent than Quirrell or Lockhart, so surely, he couldn't be that bad?

He was worse.

Harry waded through the remainder of the afternoon in a sort of fog, completely shaken by what he had seen in Moody's classroom. Every time he blinked, sickly-green light erupted behind his eyelids, making his stomach churn.

He had seen that same, green flash over and over last year, whenever the dementors got too close, and now the light was irreversibly linked to the sound of his mother's screams. He knew there had been no dementors in the classroom today, but the moment that spider died, he had heard his mum screaming.

“Some lesson, eh?” Ron was saying to Seamus as they made their way to the Great Hall for dinner. “Fred and George said he was brilliant. Really knows his stuff, Moody does. And when he cast Avada, the way that spider just _died_ –”

Harry could understand Ron's enthusiasm for a spell that could kill a spider; it was no secret that he was deathly afraid of them, so it only made sense. But there was no need for it to be _that_ spell.

“D'ya think he's cast it at a person? Moody, I mean,” Seamus asked, and Harry felt a trickle of fear slide down his spine, curling into a ball of sick anxiety in his stomach.

He glanced around, looking for an escape, and was relieved to see that Neville and Hermione were walking side by side, lost in their own thoughts. Neville had seemed equally unsettled by the events of Moody's lesson, and Harry fell into step beside him.

“You all right?”

Neville startled, as if he hadn't noticed Harry was there, then went back to staring at the stone floor as he walked. “Oh, yes, I'm fine,” he said, his voice tight.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, “me, too.”

Dinner was some of Harry's favourites – roasted parsnips, mashed potatoes, lamb tagine – but despite his severely curtailed lunch, Harry found he wasn't hungry. Under Hermione's watchful eye, he served himself a little bit of everything, and began to cut it up and push it around his plate to make it look like he was eating. Eventually, Hermione disappeared off to the library with Neville, and Ron headed back to the common room with Dean and Seamus.

“You sure you don't want to come, mate?” Ron asked for the fifth time, and Harry shook his head.

“Nah. I'm pretty tired. I'll probably just head up to the dorms when I'm finished.” It was an entirely unconvincing lie, and Harry could tell Ron didn't really believe him, but he shrugged and headed off after their dorm mates. Emotional heart-to-hearts had never been Ron's thing, and Harry was grateful for that. Right now, he just wanted to be left alone.

Harry was halfway through completely mutilating a piece of lamb when a hand landed on top of his. He recoiled sharply, dropping his knife and flicking the lamb across the table.

“Sorry,” Fred said, pulling his hand away, “I forgot.”

Harry shrugged. “Wish I could.” It came out far harsher than he'd intended, and he immediately wanted to take it back. “I didn't mean –”

“No, you're right. I know better.” The twins' easy acknowledgement and acceptance of his issues was something that continually surprised Harry. If Ron or Hermione knew half the things the twins seemed to, they would get upset, demand to know more, and start walking on eggshells around him. Fred and George had never done that; they'd worked out Harry's issues seemingly on their own, and did their best to alleviate them without calling attention to it. They never pitied him or made him feel weak, and they never handled him with kid gloves. No matter what he'd been through, he was still 'just Harry' to them.

Fred slid onto the bench beside him and started dishing up an identical plate to Harry's, only his was hot and unmangled. He pushed Harry's plate away and replaced it with the new one. “Eat, please. What's wrong?”

Harry dutifully placed a small bite of roasted parsnip in his mouth, not because he wanted to eat, but because it allowed him to avoid the question. “Where's George?” he asked, as soon as he'd forced it down.

“Detention with Snape. Idiot decided to carry on with Potions this year.”

He looked up, surprised. He hadn't known George had done well enough in his OWLs to take NEWT Potions; Mrs Weasley's ranting had led him to believe they'd failed the lot. Fred smirked and winked at Harry, making him choke on his pumpkin juice. “George is the brains, I'm the beauty.”

Harry snorted. “Let's hope he's got more brains than you have beauty,” he shot back, “or he'll never graduate.”

Fred looked momentarily stunned before a wide grin broke across his face, and Harry couldn't help but smile back.

After that, he felt much lighter, and the lingering disquiet from the Defence lesson settled down into low-level anxiety about tomorrow morning's lesson. He and Fred sat side by side at the Gryffindor table, eating their dinners and bantering good-naturedly back and forth until the Hall was almost empty. When Harry eventually did head back to the common room, he went straight to the dorm, as he'd told Ron he would, but he did so with a stomach full of food and an irrepressible smile on his face.


	9. The Grim Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaguely based during Goblet of Fire Chapters Fourteen and Fifteen.

Harry was woken the next morning after a night of gloriously uninterrupted sleep by a tapping on the dorm room window.

“Harry,” grumbled Seamus, from the general direction of a bed that was definitely not his own, “get your blasted bird, would ya? We're trying to sleep.”

Harry's eyes flew open. If Hedwig was delivering mail to the dorms rather that at breakfast, that could only mean one thing: Sirius. He launched himself across the room to pull open the window. Hedwig soared into the room, settling herself on the foot of Harry's bed and ruffling her feathers.

Harry put on his glasses and untied the letter with shaking fingers. Despite sending numerous letters, he hadn't heard back from his godfather since he'd been at the Dursleys. He was anxious to know what Sirius thought about the Death Eaters at the World Cup, and what else Remus had to say about his dreams. He'd also asked them about Moody, but that was before his first Defence lesson had led him to his own conclusions.

> _H,_
> 
> _Moony and I are headed north. If you have any more dreams or your scar hurts, go to Dumbledore immediately. Something more is happening here, though neither Moony nor I know what. If Dumbledore had pulled Mad-Eye out of retirement, he's seeing the same signs we are. Stay close to the castle and to your friends. Trust no one._
> 
> _We'll be in touch soon._
> 
> _Padfoot_

Harry's heart sank to his feet. Sirius and Remus were coming back – putting themselves in danger – because of him.

“What's up, mate?” Ron mumbled, rolling over to face him with his eyes still half-closed.

Harry passed him the letter with a trembling hand. “He's coming back. I've made him think he needs to, and now he's in danger because of me.”

Ron read the letter slowly, his face scrunching as he struggled to comprehend it in his sleep-fuzzy state. “Seeing the signs?” he asked. “What signs?”

Harry shrugged. He had a fairly good guess what Sirius had meant, but it wasn't something he was ready to admit aloud. Things were starting again. Harry had a hunch that this was how the War had started last time: little Death Eater demonstrations, discord at the Ministry, Aurors coming out of retirement, a general feeling of creeping dread and unease. Between those things and the dreams, Harry was almost sure of it. Voldemort was coming back.

But that was even more reason for Remus and Sirius to stay well hidden. Pettigrew had been with Voldemort in Harry's dreams, and he knew exactly who they were. They would be targets. He pulled a piece of parchment from his trunk and swiftly scribbled a reply.

> _S,_
> 
> _I probably just imagined my scar was hurting – a headache from being on Dudley's stupid diet. The dreams are just dreams; they don't mean anything. There's no point coming back. Don't worry about me. I feel completely normal._
> 
> _H_

He hastily attached the letter to Hedwig, gave her a handful of owl treats, and sent her on her way. He only hoped she was able to deliver it before they reached Britain's shores and found themselves at the mercy of either Wormtail or the Ministry's dementors.

The next few weeks became a very difficult, very long exercise in keeping his nerve. Hedwig did not return with or without a reply, and Harry had no way of knowing if the letter had reached Sirius or not.

When he and Ron met Hermione in the common room that morning, he told about the letter and his reply immediately. Even though Hermione thought it was a _good_ thing they were coming, she knew him well enough to simply offer silent support as he slowly drove himself mad with worry.

Fred and George were the only other people to notice his dour mood, though they took a different approach.

“You'll never guess what I slipped to Peeves that first night,” Fred said one morning over breakfast.

Harry looked up glumly from his uneaten bowl of porridge. He'd honestly forgotten all about that, and Fred was right, he didn't have a clue.

“We made a little welcome-back gift for the Headmaster,” he continued, despite Harry's lack of enthusiasm. “Lemon sherbets laced with a colour-changing potion.”

Harry's mouth dropped open, anxiety over the lack of Hedwig's appearance with the other post owls temporarily forgotten. “You _drugged the Headmaster_?” he whispered in total disbelief. “Are you mad?”

George chuckled and pulled a lovely piece of pink parchment out of his bag. “Have a look.”

_Dear Purveyors of Magical Jokes and Pranks,_

_Very well done. After sporting a lovely blue beard for a few hours, I served the remainder of your sweets at a staff meeting. Professor Snape looks fabulous in yellow, if I do say so myself._

_Sincerely,_

_An Enjoyer of Magical Jokes and Pranks_

The knowledge that the twins had not only pranked Dumbledore, but that Dumbledore had then, in turn, pranked Snape cheered Harry up for the rest of the day. Even double Potions couldn't dampen his mood because every time he looked at Snape, he imagined him with yellow hair. It was almost as good as seeing Neville's boggart in that awful vulture hat last year.

Each mealtime after that, Harry found himself flanked by the twins, who found a new prank or joke to tell him about.

“Charlie brought us some stuff from the reserve when he came over the summer,” George said over dinner one night. “Scales, claws, bits of shell, baby teeth... that kind of thing. Of course, mum has no idea. Some of it's illegal to import.”

“But the best thing was the dragon dung.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Dragon dung? What do you want that for?”

Fred's eyes twinkled. “Percy's been receiving regular 'fertilizer samples' from a pen pal in Norway for weeks now.”

“You've been sending your brother _dragon poo_?”

“Nothing less than he deserves,” George pointed out.

Harry wasn't quite sure what that meant, but he had noticed the whole family's shift in sentiment towards Percy while he'd been at the Burrow over the summer. If whatever he'd done had been enough to upset the unflappable Mr Weasley, it probably _was_ worthy of dragon dung through the post.

Alongside the stress Harry was under waiting to hear from his godfather – accompanied by the recurring nightmare of both Sirius and Remus in the cold grip of a hundred dementors, Harry's Patronus failing again and again – the workload from his classes had increased exponentially.

“You are entering the most important phase of your magical education,” McGonagall had snapped when Ron had been brave enough to complain about the amount of homework. “Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer, and the more you achieve now, the less you will have to do to catch up next year.”

That pronouncement had been accompanied by the setting of two twelve-inch essays as homework, to be completed by the same time next week.

Snape was less direct when they arrived in the dungeons that afternoon, but the sentiment was the same. “I highly doubt most of you have the necessary knowledge or skills to pass your Potions OWLs, but I will _not_ have the dunderheaded majority ruining it for the select few –” Here, he glanced at a preening Malfoy, who had made his was back into his Head of House's good books, “– who possess a modicum of talent. To that end, I expect all of you to write fifteen inches on the properties and uses of newt spleens in brewing to be completed by Thursday.”

Given that it was already the last lesson on a Tuesday, that gave Harry exactly two nights to research and write Snape's essay and Hermione – who was taking nine subjects this year – did not have the time to help him. Wednesday night found Harry alone in a corner of the library, surrounded by books and completely, utterly overwhelmed. His essay was due in thirteen hours, and currently read as follows:

_Newt spleens are used in changing, enhancing, and altering potions due to their metamorphic properties._

That was it. He needed fifteen inches. He had fifteen words.

Someone sat down at his table and, without lifting his head from the potions text he was trying valiantly to decode, Harry reached out to shift his books out of the way of the newcomer.

A slice of treacle tart and a freckled hand appeared in the corner of his vision.

“Eat.”

Harry looked up in shock to see George grinning at him from the chair beside his.

“But Madame Pince –”

“Is currently very busy dealing with a couple of dungbombs over in the Divination section. Fred made sure of it. I know you missed dessert tonight, so eat. Then I'll help you with your potions essay.”

Relief washed through Harry, and the anxiety that had made it impossible to eat earlier finally settled. He was starving. Smiling gratefully at George, Harry tucked into the tart, devouring the whole slice in only a few bites.

George vanished the plate, then pulled out a stack of notes from his own bag. “We did the same essay last year, so we can use my notes. Snape set us twenty inches, so I'll get you to fifteen no problem.”

George's notes were much easier to understand than the library books, and between those and George's surprisingly vast knowledge of potions, Harry's essay was expanding before his very eyes.

“Wait,” he said, looking back and forth between two different sections of notes. “Dried newt spleens are used in de-ageing potions, but fresh spleens are used in ageing potions...”

George shuffled his chair closer to peer over Harry's shoulder, his soft breaths tickling the side of Harry's neck as they read from the parchment together. Harry felt his cheeks grow inexplicably warm, and he was so busy trying to ignore the gentle puffs of air that he almost missed George's next question.

“Well done, Harry. Even I never noticed that. Why do you think that is?”

Harry found he didn't mind using the books for research quite as much when he had George to help him – he only had to find a relevant passage, then George would read it aloud in terms he could more easily understand.

Fresh spleens retained the abundance of red blood cells they created, whereas in dried spleens, most of the blood evaporated during the drying process.

“So the fresh blood is essential to the ageing properties of an ageing potion?” Harry asked, rapidly scribbling this new information down in his essay.

George grinned and reached up to ruffle Harry's hair. Harry had never had anyone touch his hair before – except Aunt Petunia when she cut it – but he found he quite liked the feeling. “You, Harry, are a genius. Just wait 'til we tell Fred, we've been struggling to get the ageing potion right for _weeks_.”

Harry's head shot up. “What ageing potion?”

“The one for the Tournament,” George replied, dismissively, his focus already on another section of his old notes. “We've been brewing different variations for weeks, now, and none have been quite right. We do all our experiments in a warded classroom up on the fourth floor. You should come see it sometime.”

Harry's heart sank at the reminder that the twins still planned to enter the tournament, but he couldn't deny that he was intrigued – and quite flattered – by the invitation into the twins' secret potions lab. “Sure,” he found himself saying, a smile spreading across his face, “I'd love to.”

“Tomorrow,” George said, grinning back, “after dinner, we'll take you. It's nearly ten, now, so we need to get this essay finished. Can't have you stuck in detention with Snape.”

Harry shuddered at the thought; Neville had exploded a cauldron last week and had spent detention gutting toads by hand. Snape would certainly dream up something equally nasty for him if he failed to hand in an essay of the required length tomorrow morning.

George noticed his shudder and patted his hand consolingly. “Don't worry, Harry, I'll protect you from the dungeon bat. C'mon, one more paragraph on using newt spleens in the Wit-sharpening potion and we'll be done.”

Harry turned back to his essay, then paused. “George... why _are_ you helping me? Don't you have your own work to do?”

A flicker of something flashed across George's face, but then he shrugged and grinned, and Harry thought he must have imagined it. “Nah, I've done most of my homework, and you looked like you could use the help, so what are friends for?”

“I appreciate it,” Harry said, sincerely. “Really. You're brilliant.”

“I'm the brains, Fred's the beauty,” he joked.

Harry snorted. “Fred said the same thing to me a couple weeks ago. I told him I hoped you had more brains than he did beauty or you'd never graduate.”

George's reaction was identical to Fred's. He looked up, momentarily stunned, before grinning widely. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply when a chime sounded throughout the library. “Fifteen minutes to curfew,” came Madame Pince's disembodied voice.

“Shit,” muttered Harry, and George let out a startled laugh.

“Never heard you swear before,” he explained. “We can finish this in ten minutes, I promise.”

Twelve minutes later, essay finished and books returned to their rightful places, Harry and George sprinted from the library, through several hidden passages, and arrived at the Fat Lady at exactly ten o'clock.

They'd spent two and a half hours in the library together and, even working on Harry's worst subject, it had felt like no time at all.

“Thanks, George,” Harry said, fighting the inexplicable urge to hug the older boy. “You're a lifesaver.”

“No problem. If you ever need help with Potions – or anything, really – just ask. Fred or I'll happily give up an evening to help you.”

“Speak for yourself!” Fred yelled from his seat by the fireplace. “Abandoning me all night then signing me up for extra work! What kind of a twin are you?”

“The only one you've got,” George shot back. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“G'night,” Harry muttered, “and thanks again.” They were still standing in the portrait hole, mere inches from one another, and Harry was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. As George gave no indication of moving, Harry took a step back. “See you tomorrow,” he said, hastily. Cheeks burning, he spun around and headed for the dormitories at an unnaturally fast walk.

“Are you okay?” Ron asked, as Harry flew into the dorm and slammed the door behind him.

He froze. “Uh, yeah, fine. Almost missed curfew. Got stuck in the library doing Snape's essay.” His voice sounded weak even to his own ears, but Ron seemed to write it off as a side-effect of several hours bent over a potions' essay.

“You wrote the whole thing by yourself?” he asked, incredulous. “I got Seamus to lend me his. Not as good as Hermione's, but it'll still be better than Neville's.”

Luckily, Neville was fast asleep and didn't hear this rousing homage to his abilities.

“It's only just fifteen inches, but hopefully it's worth more than a D.”

Seamus' face appeared from a gap in Dean's bed curtains. “That's what she said!” he crowed, before disappearing back behind the thankfully-strong silencing charms.

Harry snickered. Ron, on the other hand, was nearly rolling with laughter, and Harry used the distraction to slip into the bathroom without any further questions.

When he emerged, the whole dormitory was dark and silent, save for Ron's rumbling snores. He crept over to his own bed, slipped beneath the covers, and fell into a dreamless sleep for the first time since receiving Sirius' letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The initial idea for the Harry/George interaction in this chapter came from my lovely wife <3  
> She is also the beta reader for all my works.


	10. The Perilous Prediction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaguely based during Goblet of Fire Chapter Fifteen.

Harry headed to Potions the next morning in a far better mood than he had ever been before when on his way to the dungeons. His essay-cum-potions-study session with George last night had been somewhat of a revelation for him; the way George explained it all made far more sense than anything Snape had ever said, and Harry had realised he wasn't that bad Potions, after all. In fact, if he had George as his professor, he'd probably be passing the class with ease.

The brewing instructions written on the board made far more sense with his new understanding, and he noticed Hermione watching him in shock as he correctly differentiated between slicing, chopping, and dicing the necessary ingredients. It would never be his favourite subject, but Harry found that he was almost enjoying himself as he finished the final counter-clockwise stir and watched the potion change from blue to green.

At the end of the lesson, Harry proudly turned in both his essay and his potion to Snape. With George's help, he was confident his essay was worth at least an A, and his ageing potion was only half a shade lighter than Hermione's dark, forest-green concoction. Both offerings were met with his customary sneer, but not a single cutting remark, and Harry had to fight back a smile. There was no sense openly antagonising Snape by doing something a ridiculous as expressing happiness in his classroom. Neville, on the other hand, had managed to attract his fury by creating an odd, bile-coloured lump in his cauldron, which the Potions Master _evanesco_ 'd with a flick of his wand.

“He's an idiot!” Ron hissed as they fled the classroom, leaving an ashamed Neville behind.

“That's not very nice.”

“Wh– No, not _Neville_. I meant Snape. What was he thinking, teaching us all to brew bloody ageing potions only a few weeks before the Tournament? I bet half the class have pocketed some!”

“Have _you_?” Hermione asked sharply, glaring at Ron.

Ron scoffed. “I would have, if mine had been any good.”

Harry held up both his hands to show that they were empty. “I don't even want to enter, Hermione. Honestly.” He didn't mention that he'd seen Dean, Seamus, and several Slytherins pocketing vials of their attempts. If they wanted to risk their lives for 'eternal glory' or some rot, they were welcome to it. Harry was just glad he'd finally managed to brew a passable potion, though he was still sure Snape wouldn't mark him fairly for it.

After such an unusually good Potions lesson, Harry reckoned he was due some bad luck. It came in the form of a nearly blind witch who smelled strongly of stale tea.

From the moment he emerged into the classroom from the trapdoor that afternoon, Trelawney was on to him, clicking her tongue and looking at him pityingly.

Harry rolled his eyes and sank as low as he could in his seat, hoping that she'd somehow forget all about him and just teach the lesson, but he didn't need tea leaves to tell him that his attempts would be fruitless. As scatter-brained as she often was, Trelawney was single-minded when it came to making awful predictions about her students.

_She's going to predict my death, isn't she?_ Harry scrawled on a bit of parchment and slipped under a lace doily to Ron.

The red-head read it and smirked, tucking the note under his copy of _Unfogging the Future_ to keep it out of Trelawney's sight as she brushed past them, patting Harry consolingly on the shoulder as she did. Harry flinched away, barely suppressing a shudder. Ron frowned, but Harry pulled a face and let Ron think it was because he was creeped out by Trelawney, specifically.

“Harry,” Ron hissed, when Trelawney was momentarily waylaid by the arrival of Lavender and Parvati, “What do you reckon it'll be? Who'll win the bet this round?”

Harry smirked, his mood immediately brightening. He'd almost forgotten about the twins' betting pool, but it certainly made the prospect of having his death foretold far more palatable. “Dunno,” he said, trying to picture the betting board in the common room. “I think there's fair bit of money on 'a dangerous stranger', though.”

“Welcome back to Divination,” Trelawney began, dramatically, as she did every lesson. “I can see we are missing one of our number though, of course, I knew that would be a possibility. Poor girl, I fear she will not be with us for several days.”

Ron glanced around, then scribbled something on the spare parchment. _Poor girl? You know who's missing, don't you?_

Harry shook his head.

_Crabbe. Had a run in with a Blast-ended Skrewt. They probably thought he was one and tried to mate with him._

Harry snorted, which had the unfortunate side-effect of directing Trelawney's attention to him, and her eyes immediately filled with false tears behind her thick glasses.

“Oh, my boy. I have read the records you've been keeping of your dreams, so I'm sure you already know this to be true. You are in grave danger.”

Harry tried to appear shocked by this information, but from Ron's hastily-covered laugh, he failed. “Am I?”

The Divination professor crept closer, clutching a lace handkerchief in her trembling hands. “Yes, my boy. Grave danger.”

“From what?” Harry couldn't stop himself from asking. By this point Ron's shoulders were shaking dangerously, and Harry was having to fight back his own laughter.

Trelawney straightened up. “ _Grave_ danger, boy,” she said, crossly, clearly noticing his poorly-hidden amusement. “Danger from the grave.” With that, she spun around and began to lecture the whole class on the 'very delicate art' of using crystals to predict the future, which mainly involved her staring at her own crystals and muttering incomprehensible phrases every few minutes. Lavender and Parvati were huddled together, listening intently to every word, but everyone else looked as bewildered as Harry felt.

_Danger from the grave?_ Ron scribbled, not even bothering to hide the parchment any more. _A ghost? A skeleton? Inferi?_

Harry shrugged. _Or there's an animated, rampaging gravestone out to get me._

Ron failed to smother his laughter in time, and Trelawney glared up at them. “Do you think it's _funny_?” she demanded. “My crystals have just foreseen a great tragedy befalling a student in blue.”

How anyone would have interpreted that from her incomprehensible rambling, Harry wasn't sure, but he tried to rearrange his expression into something suitably serious.

With a huff, she turned back to her crystals, and Harry and Ron spent the rest of the lesson animating stick figures to play Quidditch and fight dragons.

Harry sought the twins out the moment he stepped into the Great Hall.

“Fred! George! Great news!” he called as he made his way down the table. They turned to him, grinning, and made space for him to sit down between them.

“What's up, Harry?” they chirped in unison.

Ron rolled his eyes as he sat down beside Hermione on the opposite side of the table. “Trelawney said he's in grave danger.”

Fred immediately whipped out a miniature version of the 'Predict His Peril' board from a robe pocket. “What from this time, Harrikins?”

“Either someone who's already dead, or a rampaging gravestone.” Fred and George stared at him blankly. “She said I'm 'in danger from the grave', whatever that means.”

George reached over and began filling up Harry's plate, his brow furrowed.

Fred was busy studying his board. “Well, we've got two bets on 'the undead',” he muttered, mostly to himself, “so I guess they win this round.” He looked up at Harry; his expression almost seemed annoyed, but the mischief sparkling in his eyes gave him away. “You couldn't ask her to be a tad more specific next time, could you?”

Harry smirked. “Certainly. If she's going to predict my death, she could at least do it in an approved format.” He took a mouthful of the stew George had dished up and felt the last of his anxiety drain away as the warmth of the food spread through him.

Harry ate his meal mostly in silence, listening to Ron argue with Hermione over whether someone underage who entered the Tournament with an ageing potion would be allowed to compete.

“Of course, not!” Hermione said, indignantly. “Ageing potion or not, if they're not legally an adult, they cannot compete. The rules say so.”

“I reckon if they were chosen, though, they'd have to. They can't un-choose someone.”

“If the person entered illegally, they'd have to,” Hermione insisted, jabbing her fork violently to make her point. “Only witches and wizards over seventeen can compete. Dumbledore said so himself. They can't very well name a champion who is unable to compete.”

“Actually,” said Ron, sounding terrifyingly like Hermione, “Dumbledore said you had to be seventeen to _enter_. He didn't say anything about competing. So if I was seventeen when I entered, they could choose me.”

A red flush spread across Hermione's cheekbones, warning of a impending explosion, and Harry busied himself with carefully cutting and eating his roasted carrots. A goblet slammed loudly onto the wooden table, and he winced.

“Honestly, Ronald! Your ageing potion was useless! You aren't entering. You aren't competing. And there's no way Dumbledore would let anyone under seventeen compete, even if you _did_ manage to enter.”

Ron set his jaw mulishly, but chose to shove a large chunk of potato in his mouth instead of replying. Harry silently applauded him for his wise decision; Hermione would soon run out of steam if he didn't argue back.

“Harry agrees with me. Don't you, Harry?” Hermione asked, and her eyes promised a slow, painful death if he disagreed.

“Sorry, I wasn't paying attention,” he lied, fishing around wildly for a suitable way to change the topic of conversation. “I was wondering about the other schools Dumbledore mentioned. You know, the ones we have to compete against?”

Too late, he realised that he had given away the fact that he _had_ been listening to their conversation, but Hermione didn't seem to notice.

“There are several schools of magic around the world, but the three in Europe are Hogwarts, the Durmstrang Institute of Magic, and  _Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons_ . That's who will compete for the Triwizard Cup.”

“Victor Krum went to Durmstrang,” Ron said. “But I wouldn't fancy going. They do loads of Dark magic and stuff.”

And just like that, Ron had put his foot in his mouth again, and Hermione was off. They were so busy arguing about the faults of the other schools that they rose from the table and left the Great Hall without even noticing that Harry had stayed behind, but he didn't mind one bit.

“So, am I still invited?” he asked George as the older boy passed him a slice of rhubarb pie. He had been looking forward to seeing the twins' secret lair all day, but he didn't want to assume the offer still stood. There was every possibility he'd just said it to be nice.

George grinned and nodded. “We'll go once you've finished eating.”

“I've put all the really volatile stuff under stasis, so you'll be perfectly safe,” Fred added, leaning closer to Harry. “We've got a couple prototype products to show you, though. You can be our first non-Weasley test subject!”

“No.” Harry flinched at George's tone, and Fred stared at his twin in surprise. “Harry is not a test subject.”

“Then why is he –” Fred started to ask, but George cut him off with a glare. It didn't matter; Harry knew what he'd been about to say. _Then why is he coming?_ Fred had agreed to let Harry in because he thought he would make himself useful.

Harry didn't want to cause any problems and, really, he had no business getting in between the twins or forcing himself into their experiment room. They clearly hadn't told Ron about it, so why would they invite him if not to help with their pranks? “It's fine. I can –”

“No. You will come. You will look. You will not touch or test anything. You will leave safe and whole and unharmed.” George fixed his twin with a look. “ _Won't he,_ Fred?”

Fred was still staring at George in disbelief, but he nodded. “Sure. Look, don't touch. Got it.”

The twins' room was in an old Charms classroom in an abandoned corridor. At first, Harry walked right past it.

“Notice Me Not charm,” Fred explained, grinning. “Stops nosy gits like Snape and Filch finding it.” As soon as Fred pointed out the door to him – right where it should be, evenly space between two other, identical doors – it rippled into view as if it had been there all along. “We modified a muggle-repelling charm, as well. Repels anyone over twenty, and any animals or familiars wandering about the castle.”

Harry hadn't even gotten inside yet, and he was already astounded by the magic the twins were capable of. Most days, he struggled to transfigure a hedgehog into a pincushion, and here were boys barely two years older than him making their own spells that were powerful enough to fool wizards like Snape and McGonagall.

Then the door swung open, and Harry felt _really_ inferior.

No less than ten cauldrons were simmering, stirring themselves, or shimmering under stasis bubbles. Three walls were covered in shelves that bowed under the volume of the boxes and products and vials and jars that filled them. The fourth wall had been turned into a giant chalkboard which was covered in writing from both of the twins, as well as diagrams and depictions of various prototypes and ideas.

Harry stood in the doorway, trying desperately to take in the sheer scale of what the twins had achieved, what they were going to achieve in the future. He'd known their pranks were good, but he'd never really realised until now just how _brilliant_ they were.

Harry turned to face Fred and George with a look of complete awe on his face.

“This is amazing,” he breathed. “ _You_ are amazing.”

Their answering smiles were blinding.

For the second night in the row, Harry barely made curfew. The three of them darted into the common room at exactly one minute to ten, still laughing and joking.

“Can you imagine if you slipped that to McGonagall? Or Trelawney?” Harry chuckled, the image of either professor with a beard to rival Dumbledore's striking him as incredibly amusing.

“I'm still trying to find a way to make animals talk,” Fred lamented. “I just want to see Filch's face when, one day, old Mrs Norris talks back.”

“I don't want to know what –”

The trio stopped dead when they almost walked right into Ron and Hermione, who were standing just inside the entrance to the common room, identical looks of distress and concern on their faces.

“Harry, where have you been?” The edge of fear in her voice cut through Harry like a knife, and he felt his stomach flip uncomfortably as tendrils of anxiety tightened around his chest. He hadn't meant to scare them; when they'd left without him after dinner, he'd immediately seen it as an opportunity to slip away. He'd not considered that they might be worried about him.

“With Fred and George.” It was a pathetic answer, but he felt strangely possessive of Fred and George's room and the products it contained. It was something they'd shared with _him_. He didn't want to share that with anyone else, not even his best friends.

“We've been looking for you for _hours_ ,” Ron said, his voice tight. “We even told McGonagall you were missing.”

“Yes,” came a strong, Scottish brogue from behind him, “they did. I'm pleased to see you're hale and hearty, Mister Potter, but please do inform your friends next time you plan to disappear for several hours.”

Harry slowly turned to face his formidable Head of House, cheeks burning with shame. “Sorry, Professor. I meant to tell them but I forgot.”

“Indeed,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, in any case, you're here and safe. I suggest all of you find your way to your dormitories.” She turned to go, but paused before exiting through the portrait hole. “And Messers Weasley, I can assure you, it wouldn't behoove either of you to furnish me with a beard.”


	11. The Three Schools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the timeline of Goblet of Fire Chapter Fifteen.

By late October, the excitement – and fear – caused by Professor Moody had long since burned out. Harry still faced each Defence class with significant trepidation, especially after Moody had attempted to put him under the Imperius curse, but the professor had not cast the Killing Curse again, for which Harry was grateful. The teachers – bar Hagrid and Moody – were still assigning more homework than ever and mentioning OWLs on a daily basis, but the initial panic has receded somewhat and the work load had evened out. In fact, Harry thought, he whole school had settled into what could have passed as a normal school year – aside from the absence of Quidditch – when the boat was rocked yet again by a sign that appeared in the Entrance Hall overnight.

_THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT_

_The delegations from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute will arrive at six o'clock on Friday the 30 th of October._

_The Welcoming Feast is scheduled for seven o'clock._

_All students will gather in front of the castle no later than quarter to six to greet our guests._

_Students will return all bags and books to their dormitories and present themselves in full uniform._

For the next week, Harry saw next to nothing of Fred and George. The only meal they came to was breakfast, and even then, they only grabbed food and disappeared again. In the evenings, they were conspicuously absent from the common room, where the only topic of conversation was the tournament. Who would be entering (pretty much everyone in seventh year and a fair few from sixth), who would be chosen as champion (a Gryffindor, obviously), what the other schools were like (Beauxbatons were snobs and Durmstrang were all Dark wizards), what would the tasks be (the speculation was wilder than the suggestions on the twins' _Predict His Peril_ board).

“Wonder what the tasks are _really_ going to be?” Ron said, as he escaped a rather ridiculous conversation with Seamus, who was only suggesting awful things to scare Neville. He looked around, then lowered his voice so only Harry and Hermione could hear. “I bet we could do them, y'know. We got through all those challenges the teachers set up in first year.”

“We did them _together_ ,” Harry pointed out, “and we still nearly died.”

“And it wasn't in front of a panel of judges,” Hermione said. “I've been reading about it in –”

“ _Hogwarts, A History_ ,” Harry and Ron said together, grinning.

“Yes. The Heads of the schools and select others make up a panel of judges, who give the contestants marks for how the task is completed, like speed, spells used, that kind of thing. I'd imagine the kinds of spells they'd be looking for would be well beyond anything we've learned.”

“Not if Moody had his way,” Harry muttered sourly. “If it wasn't for the Ministry, I'd bet he'd have us all casting the Unforgivables.”

“He'll love the Durmstrang lot, then. I bet they teach them in first year.”

“Ron!” Hermione shouted, exasperated. They'd rehashed this argument on nearly a daily basis since the announcement had been made, and even Harry was getting sick of it. “ _Stop it_. Not everyone who goes to Durmstrang is Dark, and I'm sure they don't teach the students Unforgivable curses.”

“Hermione, you heard Malfoy! His dad wanted to send him there because they teach _real_ Dark Arts, not just Defence.”

“Oh, Malfoy talks a load of crap and you know it!”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Malfoy might, Hermione, but his dad doesn't. He's the one who slipped Ginny the diary in first year, remember? That was clearly Dark magic. I bet he did want to send his son to Durmstrang, so he'd learn all about it.”

Before Hermione could reply – probably to insist, again, that Durmstrang didn't mean Dark – Dean shouted Harry's name from across the common room.

Harry looked up to see Dean, who had Seamus asleep on his lap, pointing to the window, where a disgruntled-looking Hedwig was tapping sharply at the glass.

He hurried across the room to let her in, and she fluttered wearily onto his shoulder, hooting softly.

“Hey, girl,” he murmured, stroking her feathers, “have you got something for me?”

She held out a leg, and Harry immediately recognised Remus' handwriting on the front of the envelope. Sirius had finally replied.

Harry snagged a couple of the biscuits Ron was eating to feed to his owl and settled back on the sofa.

“Guys,” he whispered, “it's Padfoot and Moony.”

> _Harry,_
> 
> _Nice try, but we're coming. We're back in the country and well hidden. Keep us posted about everything that's going on at Hogwarts, especially the incoming schools. Don't use Hedwig, she's too easily recognised. Change owls as often as possible. Don't worry about us._
> 
> _Don't forget what Pads said about your scar._
> 
> _R & S_

They were back. Hedwig had been too late, and they were back. Harry's heart was pounding in his chest, and the rushing of blood in his ears threatened to drown out the sounds of the common room around him.

Hermione leaned over his shoulder to read the letter.

“I bet they're travelling as Muggles,” she murmured. “A Welshman with a dog wouldn't attract much attention, especially not where nobody knows them.”

Harry's heart slowed fractionally. Hermione was right. Remus knew enough about the Muggle world to pass as a Muggle, and Sirius' dog form would attract very little attention if they stuck to the right kind of places – campsites, rural pubs, places for hikers and outdoorsmen.

“You can use Pig, Harry,” Ron offered. “Not every time, but at least he knows Remus and Sirius.”

Harry smiled weakly. He'd felt sick to his stomach when he'd first read the letter, but his best friends always knew how to talk him down. “Thanks, Ron. And Hermione.” Suddenly, Harry missed the previously-constant presence of the twins; they were the only ones who had ever been able to surpass his best friends in their ability to cheer him up and distract him from the awfulness that seemed to happen around him. Their disappearance over the last week had left Harry feeling off-kilter and oddly lonely, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

No longer feeling up to spending time in the crowded common room, which was conspicuously missing two key members, he tucked the letter into his pocket and stood from the sofa. “I think I'm going to head to bed.”

Ron and Hermione shared a glance, but Harry ignored it. He let Hedwig back out of the window and headed up to bed. When Ron followed fifteen minutes later, Harry had his curtains closed, but he did not fall asleep for a very long time.

The next day, he didn't even see the twins at breakfast. The first time he got so much as a glance of the two red-heads was as he, Ron, and Hermione were ushered out onto the school grounds by a harried-looking McGonagall, who was trying valiantly to keep all her Gryffindors in one place ready for the arrival of the other schools. The speculation over the tournament had turned into speculation as to how the other schools would arrive; again, it ranged from the benign to the completely barmy.

“Do you think they'll take the train?” Neville asked, shivering in the cool evening air.

“Doubt it,” said Ron. “They'll probably apparate. They're all of age, aren't they.”

“You can't apparate into Hogwarts!” Hermione said, crossly. “I don't know why nobody seems to know that! It's right there in _Hogwarts: A History_.”

“Broomsticks?” suggested Harry, distractedly, as he tried to relocate Fred and George, who had been with Lee and Angelina when he'd last spotted them.

“Too far for broomsticks,” said Seamus. “Their bums'd get numb.”

Harry's search for the twins was cut short by a scream from a tiny, curly-haired Hufflepuff. The whole crowd followed her pointing hand to a large, dark object in the sky that appeared to be hurtling towards them at speed.

“It's a flying house!” yelled Dennis Creevey, as the indistinct object passed over the Forbidden Forest and made its way directly for the assembled students.

“Don't be silly,” scoffed Colin, but Dennis wasn't far off. As it flew closer, a gigantic, blue carriage drawn by a dozen, elephant-sized horses came into view. The horses and the carriage crashed into the ground just inches from the first-years, who had been placed at the front of the crowd, causing several to scream, and one particularly nervous Slytherin boy to grasp the edge of Snape's robes. To Harry's surprise, Snape made no move to murder the boy; though there was no possible way he could be oblivious to the clinging student, Snape gave no indication that he had noticed at all and, a few moments later, the boy let go of his own accord, entirely unharmed.

Once stationary, the large door on the carriage swung open, and the reason for its size was immediately apparent. From within, a woman in magnificent, black satin robes and dripping with jewels emerged; each foot was the size of a child's sled, and as she straightened, her height rivalled Hagrid's.

Following the lead from their Heads of House, the students broke into polite applause, though most were still fixated, wide-eyed on the giant woman.

Dumbledore stepped forward to greet the woman, not needing to bend at all to kiss the back of her enormous hand. “Madame Maxime,” he said, loud enough that his voice carried above the applause, “welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” the woman replied in a deep, rumbling voice, “I 'ope we find you well. These are my students.”

Harry, who had been entirely fixated in the woman, suddenly noticed the students, all dressed in outfits the same, pale blue as the carriage and shivering in the cold, Scottish air, gathered behind their Headmistress. Not one of them was wearing a warm robe or cloak, despite it being nearly November.

“Is it warm in France?” Harry whispered to Hermione, remembering that Beauxbatons was located somewhere in that country.

Hermione looked somewhat shocked by the question. “Yes,” she replied, slowly, her brow furrowed, “lots of people go there on holiday. It's not exactly tropical, but it's much warmer than Scotland, or England, for that matter.”

Harry felt uncomfortable under her gaze; he was getting the impression that maybe it was something he should have known. “Oh,” he said, for lack of anything else to say. “Thanks.”

The Beauxbatons students were ushered into the castle, leaving their carriage and its oversized horses behind. It was a good thing Hagrid was so large himself, because Harry couldn't imagine any normal-sized witch or wizard being able to handle the gigantic beasts.

A few minutes later, a shout came from Lee Jordan, alerting Harry to not only the imminent arrival of the Durmstrang students, but to Fred and George's location in the crowd. While everyone else's heads swung to look out over the lake, Harry craned his neck to look behind him, where the voice had come from. The twins were flanked by Lee and Angelina, and Fred had his arm slung over the Chaser's shoulder, a grin on his face as he whispered something in her ear.

Harry's stomach lurched oddly, and his head whipped back to face the lake before he had time to consciously process the movement. A ripple of 'ooh's spread through the crowd, but Harry, though facing the lake, was staring unseeingly at the waves. His chest was tight, and he couldn't understand why he suddenly felt so violently, uncontrollably _angry_. His hand automatically moved up to his scar, but it lay flat and pain-free against his head. The abrupt wave of emotion was his own. He just didn't know why.

“You alright, mate?”

Harry spun to face Ron, but he was still watching the lake. The question hadn't come from him. Instead, it was Dean who was looking at Harry, concern etched on his face.

“Uh,” Harry said, caught off guard by both the question and the person asking it. Dean was a great dorm mate, even a friend, but they'd never really spoken one on one about anything but school or Quidditch. “Fine, I think.”

Dean was visibly unconvinced. “I know we aren't close, Harry, but if you need anything, I can keep a secret.”

Harry thought that was an incredibly odd thing for him to say, but he nodded anyway. “Thanks, Dean. But really, I'm okay. Just a bit hungry.”

The taller boy shrugged. “The offer is open-ended. If you ever need me, I'll be here.”

Thoroughly confused, Harry turned back to the lake in time to see an enormous, black ship emerge from beneath the water. Its large, empty masts and the pale light emanating from small portholes gave the overall impression of a ghost ship, and Harry shuddered. Seemingly with nothing to power it, the ship drifted silently towards the shore; a splash of an anchor being lowered and the thud of a plank hitting the bank echoed up to the waiting students, then figures in thick cloaks began to file out of the ship.

Again, Dumbledore emerged from the crowd. As the figures drew closer, he could see their cloaks were made from thick, brown fur, and at the head of the line was an older man with a thin face and a greying goatee, who wore a dramatic, black fur cape.

“Dumbledore!” the man called in a loud, rasping voice, and the Hogwarts Headmaster moved forward to shake hands with him. He grasped Dumbledore's hand in both of his and shook it hard. “How are you?”

“Well, High Master Karkaroff. Thank you.”

As the Durmstrang students stepped forward to surround their High Master, one student in particular caught Harry's eye.

“ _Harry_ ,” Ron hissed, clearly having noticed the same thing as Harry himself, “it's him! Viktor Krum!”


	12. The Ageing Potion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the timeline of Goblet of Fire Chapter Sixteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Harry drops an f-bomb.

The Great Hall had been decorated in preparation for the arrival of the two schools, with large banners depicting the crests of each house and the school lining the walls. The tables and benches appeared to have been sanded and polished, the cutlery and serving-ware buffed to a shine, and the stone walls scrubbed almost beyond recognition. The teachers were dressed in their best robes – though with Snape, you'd never know, as all his robes were black – as they led their houses into the Hall.

The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were hovering at the entrance with their respective headteachers, apparently unsure as to where they would be sitting.

“We could invite Krum to sit with us,” Ron suggested excitedly, as they headed for their usual space at the Gryffindor table.

“Why would he do that?” Hermione scoffed, “He doesn't even know you. He might not even speak English. Besides, I'm sure Dumbledore has arranged seating for the schools so they can all sit together.”

Hermione had barely finished her sentence when Snape and Flitwick approached Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, respectively, and indicated to space that had been made at the end of each of their House tables. The Durmstrang students sat down far more readily than the Beauxbatons contingent, most of whom were clutching conjured scarves around their necks and looking decidedly unimpressed.

“Well, that confirms it,” Ron muttered darkly, as Durmstrang joined the Slytherin table, “Durmstrang is definitely Dark. Why else would they be sitting with the Slytherins?”

Apparently, even Krum being a student hadn't been enough to change Ron's perception of the other school, and his scowl only deepened when Krum was seated next to Malfoy, who immediately began sucking up to the Quidditch player, sliding closer with his smarmiest smile plastered to his face.

“Bet Krum can see right through him,” Ron spat. “He'll be trying to act like he's the school's best Seeker or some rot. It's embarrassing.”

More of the Durmstrang students joined in the conversation, gesturing with their hands and smiling at whatever was being said, and some of the voices raised loud enough to drift over to the Gryffindor table. Whatever language they were speaking, it wasn't English, but Malfoy seemed to have no issue keeping up.

The rest of the professors, including the visiting headteachers, settled themselves at the head table, but Dumbledore remained standing. As he stepped up to his podium, a hush fell over the Hall.

“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and guests,” he greeted, smiling at the visiting students. The Durmstrang students all smiled or nodded back; the Beauxbatons students remained sullen. “It gives me great pleasure to welcome you all to Hogwarts. I hope your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable.”

A derisive scoff came from a Beauxbatons girl who was wearing a large, white muffler, and several students turned to face her in disbelief, Harry among them. The students of Hogwarts had had a great many reactions to things the Headmaster had said over the years, but none had ever been so blatantly disrespectful as to publicly scoff at one of the oldest and most powerful wizards alive. Even Madame Maxime looked taken aback.

Dumbledore merely continued on, without pause, as though he hadn't heard her. “The Tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast. I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home.”

As he took his seat, the serving platters filled with food, though it seemed a far cry from Hogwarts' usual, simple fare. There were a great number of dishes Harry did not recognise at all, and the variety on offer was slightly overwhelming. There was an uncomfortable pause where Harry half-expected the foods he'd enjoy to appear on his plate courtesy of a large, freckled hand, before Harry pulled himself together and began dishing up whatever looked familiar.

He had managed just fine the last three years without their help, so he could certainly manage without it now.

" _Excusez-moi_ ,” said a voice just as Harry was putting the first mouthful of mutton pie into his mouth, “are you wanting ze _bouillabassie_?”

It was the girl who had scoffed during Dumbledore's speech, though she had now removed her muffler, and her long, pale blonde hair fell down her back. If it wasn't for her deep, blue eyes, she could have almost been Malfoy's twin, right down to the condescending curl of her lip and haughty tone in her voice.

Harry wasn't sure what the girl wanted, and turned helplessly to Hermione.

“Here,” she said, pushing a large plate of shellfish towards the girl.

“You have finished wiz it?”

"Yes, it was excellent,” Hermione said with a hard tone in her voice, as if she was daring the girl to say otherwise. “Far better than I've ever had in France. Our kitchen staff here are _les meilleurs_.”

The girl regarded Hermione coolly, before picking up the dish and carrying it back to the Ravenclaw table with the kind of grace Harry would never possess himself.

Ron was staring at the girl, his eyes wide, and his face so red it was almost purple beneath his freckles. “She's a _veela_ ,” he said hoarsely, never once removing his eyes from the girl as she sat back down at her table.

Hermione scoffed. “Of course she isn't, Ron. Look, Harry's not staring after her and drooling. You're the only one doing that.”

But around the hall, several students had also turned to look at her, and most seemed just as fixated as Ron was. Anthony Goldstein was visibly drooling, and Harry was sure if Crabbe and Goyle stared any harder, their brains would start to dribble out their ears. He took another look at the French girl; she was beautiful, but he still couldn't understand quite what all the fuss was about. Harry recalled abruptly that he hadn't been affected by the veela at the World Cup, either, and opened his mouth to ask Hermione about it when Ron interrupted him.

“They don't make them like that at Hogwarts,” Ron muttered, still gazing at the French girl, and Hermione turned an odd shade of red, stabbing her sausage with more force than strictly necessary.

The rest of the meal was spent in uncomfortable silence for Harry. To one side, Ron was making moon-eyes at the Beauxbatons student and barely remembering to eat. To the other, Hermione was practically annihilating her food, anger rolling off her in perceptible waves. And Harry didn't dare look further down the table, because the twins were there. Fred was still cosied up to Angelina – not that he was looking – and George was laughing with Lee, Alicia, and Katie.

Finally, when the serving dishes were decimated and plates had been scraped clean, Dumbledore once again took to his feet. The hall fell silent, this time with excited anticipation for what they all knew was coming. Fred and George both leaned forwards, their eyes fixed on Dumbledore, and Harry _knew_. His full stomach rebelled slightly, and his heart sank. The twins had perfected their ageing potion.

“The moment has come.”

The hall was so still and quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.

“The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin, and I would like to say a few words to clarify the procedure by which the three champions will be chosen. But first, I would like to introduce Mr Ludo Bagman and Mr Bartemius Crouch –”

Harry noticed, belatedly, that both Ludo Bagman and Mr Crouch, who he had met at the World Cup, were seated at the head table. Bagman had the same, jovial grin on his face that he'd been sporting when Harry had last met him, though thankfully, he was wearing robes that fit him this time. Mr Crouch, however, maintained a stony expression that would rival Snape's.

“Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch will be joining myself, Madame Maxime, and High Master Karkaroff on the panel of judges who determine the marks each champion will receive during the challenges they face in their quest to become the Triwizard Champion,” Dumbledore paused, motioning to Mr Filch, who scurried out of the Hall via a side door.

“The champion from each school, however, will not be chosen by human judges, but rather by an impartial selector.”

Mr Filch hurried back into the Hall, grasping what appeared to be a large, wooden cup, and placed it on top of a plinth which had been placed beside Dumbledore's podium. Dumbledore waved his wand, and the cup filled to the brim with dancing, blue flames.

“The Goblet of Fire.”

Harry noticed out of the corner of his eye as the twins grinned at one another. He could only imagine that the lack of human oversight to ensure they were, indeed, over seventeen played into their plans perfectly, and his heart sank a little further.

“Anyone wishing to submit themselves as champion,” Dumbledore continued, “must write their name and school on a slip of parchment and place it into the Goblet within the next twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night, the Goblet will return the names of the three it has judged to be most worthy. I will be placing an age line; nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to pass through it to enter their name.”

Fred and George's grins didn't even falter.

Risking her wrath, Harry turned to Hermione. “Dumbledore's own age line wouldn't be fooled by an ageing potion, would it?” he whispered.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she replied tersely, “no one here is powerful enough to outsmart Dumbledore.” Harry smiled and allowed himself to be comforted by her words, despite her continued sour mood.

“Finally,” Dumbledore said loudly, silencing the whispers that had broken out, “the placing of one's name in the Goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. Once a champion is selected, he or she is obliged to see the Tournament through to the end. Be sure that when you submit your name that you truly wish to compete. Once entered, there can be no change of heart.”

The comfort of Hermione's word was short lived as Harry's heart sank in his chest. If the twins' potion was as good as the smiles on their faces seemed to suggest, and they managed to enter their names, even Dumbledore would be completely powerless to stop them from competing. His only option was to talk them out of entering... But neither of them had spoken to him all week, and why on earth would they listen to him – their little brother's best mate? The same, abrupt anger from earlier swept through him, and he stiffened at the unfamiliar feeling.

He didn't want to worry about Fred and George. He didn't want them to enter their names. He didn't want them to risk their lives in a stupid tournament. He didn't want this stupid Tournament to exist at all. All Harry wanted was to get up to the dormitories and shut himself behind his curtains and not emerge again until it was all over.

He joined the other Gryffindor students as they rose from the table and moved towards the doors, not knowing or caring if Ron and Hermione had joined him. Out of politeness, Harry paused in the doorway to allow Karkaroff and the Durmstrang students to pass through first, but the High Master froze as he drew level, his eyes widening as they ran over Harry from head to toe. Krum, who was at his side, did the same, his eyes stopping abruptly when they reached Harry's forehead.

“Mister Potter –” Krum began, in heavily-accented English, before he was interrupted by a voice from behind them.

“Yeah,” Moody growled, “that's Harry Potter.”

Karkaroff stiffened, all the blood draining from his face, and the expression that passed over it reminded Harry eerily of Snape's reaction to the Defence professor.

“Unless you've got anything to say to Potter, you might want to move, you're blocking the doorway.” The words themselves could have been a polite suggestion, but the tone made it very clear that it was a threat, and Harry shivered.

Harry and Krum both looked back and forth between the two professors, brows furrowed, trying to understand the animosity between two men who, to their knowledge, had never met. Briefly, Harry met Krum's eye, and the older boy shrugged apologetically.

“High Master,” he said, breaking the silent stand off the two professors seemed to be having, “we should get back to the ship.”

Without another word, Karkaroff stalked out of the Great Hall, Krum at his side and the rest of his students trailing behind like lost ducklings. Moody watched him until he was out of sight, his magical eye trained on his back, and a look of pure loathing on his face.

Hallowe'en should have been a Hogsmeade Saturday, but today, not a single student seemed to want leave the castle. Instead, at a time when most would normally still be sleeping, the vast majority of the students were milling around the Entrance Hall, watching and waiting.

Harry had risen before dawn, eventually giving up on any attempt to sleep as the sky outside turned from black to grey to pink. The twins had not returned to the common room last night, and nor had Lee or Angelina; the rumours circulating the common room ranged from a drunken party for the upper years to some kind of clandestine tryst. When those rumours had started, Harry had – for the third time that evening – lost all control and stormed up to the dormitories, shutting his curtains and laying wide awake and alone in his bed until the first signs of morning appeared.

As soon as was reasonable, Harry had left the dorms and headed down to the Entrance Hall, where seats had been set up surrounding the Goblet. He'd not managed to talk to the twins last night, but hopefully, he could catch them this morning before they put their names in the cup.

He could smell the delicious scents of oatmeal and toast wafting in from the Great Hall, and his stomach clenched, but he refused to move. Somewhat irrationally, he had convinced himself that if he moved for even a moment, the twins would slip past him and enter their names, and then it would be all his fault. As the morning dragged on, Harry was joined by more and more students; most gathered plates of breakfast before settling in groups to watch for whoever came to enter their names.

A ripple of gasps ran through the assembled crowd as the Durmstrang contingent arrived in single file, each placing their pieces of parchment into the flaming Goblet before heading into the Great Hall. The last in the line, accompanied by Karkaroff, was Krum.

Harry watched, transfixed, as the dark, muscular man marched up to the cup, passing through the shimmering gold age line, and entered his name without so much as a flicker of fear or hesitation. As he turned to join his school mates, his eyes caught Harry's. Harry flushed, feeling unreasonably embarrassed at being caught, given that everyone else in the room was doing the same thing, but Krum just offered him a small smile and a tilt of his head.

“Potter,” he greeted politely as he passed.

Harry smiled back and tried to return the greeting, but his voice seemed stuck in his throat, and before he could find it again, Krum was gone.

A loud, familiar laugh echoed through the hall, and Harry spun around to see Fred, George, and Lee hurrying down the staircase, all three of them looking extremely pleased with themselves.

The twins spotted Harry almost immediately and, unlike the past week, headed straight for him.

With his lack of sleep, their behaviour over the past week, the rumours that had circulated last night, his worry about them entering the Tournament, and his own apparent emotional instability, their sudden change in attitude toward him was more than he could take.

Before either twin could say a word, Harry surged to his feet. “What have you done?” he demanded, his stomach churning and his chest tightening with both anger and anxiety. It was a ridiculous question. Harry knew full well what they'd done; he'd seen the Ageing potions in their lab less than a month ago. But, for some reason, he needed to hear them admit it.

Apparently oblivious to Harry's turmoil, Fred grinned. “We've taken an ageing potion. Just one drop each, enough to age us six months or so.”

“We're going to split the thousand galleons between us if one of us wins,” George chimed in, rubbing his hands together with glee.

At the mention of the prize money, anger shot through him and he lost all sense of reason. “Is that what this is about? A thousand Galleons? You're willing to _die_ for a thousand Galleons?” His head was spinning, and he felt violently sick, but he forced himself to remain upright.

“Harry,” George whispered, taken aback, “are you okay?”

“A thousand Galleons, Harry!” Fred persisted, ignoring his twin. “Can you imagine what we could do with that kind of money?”

“IT'S NOT WORTH DYING FOR!”

The Hall fell silent as everyone turned to stare at them, but Harry didn't care. Darkness was starting to close in at the edges of his vision, which was odd, but Harry shoved it aside. He'd worry about it later, after he convinced the twins not to compete. “I'll give you the damn money myself. Hell, I'll give you a thousand Galleons each! I don't give a flying fuck about the money, I just want you both alive!”

Lee, who had been hovering awkwardly beside them, suddenly pulled a slip of parchment from his pocket. “If you're done,” he said, hesitantly, “I'm going to enter my name, now.”

With the eyes of every person in the Entrance Hall upon him, Lee took a deep breath and stepped over the age line.

For a split second, Harry had the awful feeling that it had worked. And if it had worked, the twins would be putting their names in next. Beside him, Fred let out a whoop of excitement, waving his own piece of parchment in readiness. But the next moment, there was a loud _pop_ and Lee was forcibly ejected from the circle, flying through the air and landing with a thud several meters away on the stone floor. Then, before their very eyes, he began to grow a long, white beard.

“I did warn you,” came an amused voice, and Harry spun to see Dumbledore standing in the doorway to the Great Hall, watching the proceedings with a smile on his face. He tilted his head towards the twins. “You can thank your friends for the idea, and I must say, it's far more amusing seeing it used on wayward students than on my deputy head.”

Harry started to laugh, but the world lurched around him, and he felt himself falling. He saw the twins' faces, frozen in identical masks of shock. And then the world went black.


	13. The Guardian Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during Goblet of Fire Chapter Sixteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter, guys. Most of the chapters have been 2500-3000, and this one is over 3700. Enjoy!

The first things Harry was dimly aware of were the voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying, at first, and they seemed to fade in and out around him as he struggled to orientate himself, to force his brain to function even as his body lay limp and unresponsive.

Antiseptic potions. Clean, crisp sheets. Thin, uncomfortable mattress. He was in the Hospital Wing. Probably in the third bed on the left.

Slowly, he struggled backwards through the sludge in his brain. The Goblet of Fire. Age line. Viktor Krum. Fred and George.

Alarm flooded through him, sending a shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Fred and George. They'd brewed an ageing potion.

Lee.

Harry's heart slowly settled back into a more normal rhythm as the panic subsided. The potion hadn't worked. Fred and George hadn't entered the Tournament. They were safe.

He remembered Lee being thrown out of the circle and growing a beard. Dumbledore had been there and said... Try as he might, he couldn't remember what the Headmaster had said. He remembered laughing, though. And then it all went blank.

“– Harry – sleep – head.”

George. George was here.

Harry's head throbbed as he tried to turn towards the sound of George's voice, and though he willed his eyes to open, they refused to obey.

“Harry.”

The voice was closer now.

“Harry, can you hear me?”

A large, warm hand cradled his, a thumb rubbing over his palm. Oh. That was nice. He tried to return the favour, but his fingers just twitched feebly before falling numb and unresponsive once more.

“Harry!”

Loud. Too loud. From the other side of him. Fred.

“Madame Pomfrey! He's waking up!”

That was Hermione. Why was Hermione here?

“Harry!” Ron was here, as well. And far, far too loud.

Harry took a deep breath and battled his way up through the lethargy that pinned him to the mattress and made his body feel heavy and useless. “ _P-ee-ss_ ,” he slurred, his voice weak. “ _Qui...et_.”

“Right. All of you, out of my way.” Madame Pomfrey.

He heard the shuffling of feet, but the hand cradling his didn't move.

There was a moment of silence, then a huff from the matron. “Oh, fine. But if you interfere with any of my scans, you're out of the Hospital Wing for good.”

More silence. Then the clinking of potion bottles, the muttering of spells, the tingle of Madame Pomfrey's now-familiar magic. A strong pair of arms wrapping around him, gently holding him, lifting him, settling him back against soft pillows in an upright position. George. Harry could tell from how he smelled, but he didn't have the energy to wonder just _why_ he could do that.

Then Madame Pomfrey's cool, efficient hands on his neck, taking his pulse. Larger, warmer hands; one cradling the back of his head, one on his chin, and – _Oh, God. Why did healing potions always taste like rotting flesh?_ But, Merlin, did they work. Warm, vibrant energy seemed to seep through Harry's system, awakening his nerves and muscles, erasing the heavy, lethargic weight from his limbs.

The moment his eyes opened, the hand supporting his head disappeared, and his head lolled momentarily before he regained control of his neck muscles. Slowly, the Hospital Wing swam into view, revealing three indistinct figures at the foot of his bed, and one at either side. He blinked heavily, trying to clear the haze, but the world remained stubbornly vague. Cool metal slid onto his face and the world around him sharpened. Of course he couldn't see; he didn't have his glasses on.

Hermione, Ron, and Fred were hovering at the end of his bed, all three looking concerned, and Harry's heart rate kicked up a notch. Madame Pomfrey, to his right, was bustling about preparing even more nasty potions for him to take, but she didn't look worried. He probably wasn't dying, at least. And then there was George. He had conjured a chair to the left of Harry's bed and was sitting, tense as a coiled spring, right on the edge of it. His eyes were rimmed with pink, almost as if he'd been crying, and Harry's heart lurched painfully at the sight.

“George?” he whispered.

The red-head turned his face away, staring resolutely out one of the stained glass windows. He looked as pale and shaken as Mrs Weasley had the morning after the Death Eaters attacked the World Cup, and his freckles stood out alarmingly on his ghostly-white skin.

Fred and George were often at Harry's bedside when he landed himself in the Hospital Wing, but they were always cracking jokes and stealing his sweets. Seeing them both looking so serious was incredibly unsettling. “Harry, I'm sorry,” George whispered, his voice raw. “You were right next to me, but I didn't catch you.”

_That_ was what all this was about?

Harry stared at him incredulously. “I fainted.”

“Yes,” interrupted Madame Pomfrey, her tone disapproving. “You fainted because you have neither slept nor eaten properly in over twenty-four hours. And because you fainted, you fractured your skull.”

“He fractured his skull because I stood there and did nothing,” muttered George, but before Harry could argue, Fred cut in.

“Why didn't you eat or sleep?”

Harry turned to Fred, momentarily disoriented by the question that he didn't have an answer to. _'You hadn't spoken to me all week'_ was one honest answer. _'You wanted to enter a deadly tournament'_ was another, though how he'd explain why that caused him not to eat or sleep, he wasn't sure because even he didn't really know. _'You were snuggling Angelina'_ was a ridiculous reason, however much it had irrationally contributed to Harry's lack of appetite at dinner last night. _'There was a rumour that you, George, Lee, and Angelina were having a foursome'_ was not something he would ever say out loud. _'You weren't there to dish up my food and check I ate it.'_ Good Godric, he sounded like a toddler.

“I was stressed.”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione sighed, moving to sit on the end of the bed and rubbing his leg through the thin sheets. “Please try not to worry about them, okay? I'm sure they're safe.”

Harry blinked at her, completely dumbfounded; Fred and George, at least, seemed similarly nonplussed, but Ron was staring down at him pityingly. What on earth was Hermione on about?

“We, uh, told Dumbledore,” he said, looking ashamed of himself, and though Harry had no idea what he was talking about, his heart thumped unevenly in his chest. “I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't know what else to do. McGonagall wanted to write to the Dursleys, y'know, like they normally do –”

That was news to Harry. He had no idea that anyone had ever informed his relatives of any of his trips to the Hospital Wing. Mind you, they probably burned the letters without reading them so, as far as his aunt and uncle were concerned, no one ever _had_ informed them.

“– but Fred and George weren't keen on the idea, so we suggested my mum and dad. You're practically family, and they'd want to know you'd been hurt, but Dumbledore said they didn't count because they aren't your guardians. So we told him about Padfoot and Moony.”

Oh. Suddenly things made a lot more sense.

“They aren't going to write to the Dursleys,” Hermione said, quickly, as she saw Harry's expression change, but he wasn't angry, not at all.

Of course Ron and Hermione hadn't had a clue that he'd been upset by the twins' absence and determination to enter the Tournament, because why on earth _was_ he upset by that? It made no sense, even to him. They thought he was upset about Sirius and Remus. Which he was; he worried about them every day, but that worry had taken a definite back seat in the last week.

“What the hell is 'Padfoot and Moony'?” Fred asked, his eyes bouncing from Hermione to Ron to Harry and back again. With a sudden, sinking feeling, Harry recalled just who had given him the Marauders' Map last year. It would only be a matter of time – days if he was lucky, hours if he wasn't – before Fred made the connection. He had until then to decide how much to tell him. Them. If he was going to tell Fred about his godfather, he would tell George, as well.

“Nothing,” Ron and Hermione said in unison, and Fred's suspicious expression deepened. Hours, Harry decided. Certainly before tonight's curfew, if not sooner, now that they had no ageing potion to distract them.

Madame Pomfrey forced a bottle of pain potion into Harry's hand – this one, he knew on sight – and he choked it back with a grimace.

“Well,” he said, trying to lighten the mood, “still better than throwing up slugs.”

Ron turned bright red as his brothers chuckled. Even George looked a little brighter. Harry wasn't used to being the one cracking jokes, and he wanted nothing more than for both twins to lose their tense expressions and say something completely inappropriate that would make Madame Pomfrey shout and Harry, Ron, and Hermione laugh uncontrollably. But it wasn't looking likely, at the moment.

“I spelled two nutrient potions and some Skele-gro into you while you passed out,” Madame Pomfrey said, “but I still need you to take this Pepper-up, eat a decent meal, and return to me for another dose of pain potion after dinner tonight.”

“I'll bring him,” George promised, and Madame Pomfrey shot him a grateful look. He'd had no plans to return for more potions and, somehow, they'd known it. His track record wasn't _that_ poor, surely... No, Harry admitted to himself, it was that poor. He'd never once turned up for his required potions after escaping the Hospital Wing.

After a vial of Pepper-up, several more scans, and a bit of fussing, Madame Pomfrey finally agreed to release him from the Hospital Wing, but only because lunch was being served in the Great Hall, and she wanted him to eat a full meal.

He still felt slightly unsteady on his feet, and the edges of his vision blurred if he moved too quickly, but he tried his best not to show it as the five of them made their way to the Great Hall. If George's narrowed gaze and Hermione's side-eye were anything to go by, he was doing a poor job of it.

“So,” Harry said, trying to distract them from his uneven steps, “what did I miss? Who else has entered?”

It didn't work.

As he stumbled to his left, George and Fred moved to flank him, both wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him upright. Harry's knees weakened, and his head span slightly as their warm, muscled bodies pressed into his from either side, holding him steady. _Just a side effect of the fainting and cracked skull_ , he told himself, though he was unable to convince even his own conscience that it was true. Like the abrupt anger the night before, the feelings were disorienting and slightly unsettling, and though they were decidedly his own emotions, he couldn't put a finger on exactly what was causing them or why. Probably just sleep deprivation wreaking havoc; he'd be fine once he knew Sirius and Remus were safe. He'd get a few good nights' sleep, and he'd be back to normal.

“You're weaving worse than a drunk elf,” said Fred. “And none of us know what's happened; we were all in the Hospital Wing with you.”

It took far longer than usual, but they made it to the Great Hall – which was decorated lavishly with bats and carved pumpkins for Hallowe'en – in one piece. Fred and George steered him to their usual place on Gryffindor table where Lee, now beard-free, was already waiting. Harry watched on, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, as the twins worked in concert to pile his plate high with all his favourite foods. Within moments, his goblet had been filled with pumpkin juice, and his plate was overflowing with pumpkin pasties, scotch eggs, cheese and pickle sandwiches, and a fully-garnished salad.

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely, his cheeks unreasonably warm as he grinned at both of the twins. “I've missed you this week.”

Oh, pity of Merlin, what the hell had he said that for?

Harry barely resisted the urge to hide his face in his hands; instead, he took a large gulp of pumpkin juice and decided to hope they hadn't heard him.

No such luck.

“Sorry, Harry.” George sounded miserable again. “We were so busy with the potion, we got a bit carried away.”

“We missed you, too.” Fred nudged him gently in the ribs, and an odd warmth filled Harry's chest. “Our Ageing potion was a bust, but Dumbledore tried to prank us with our own trick, so I reckon we owe him one.”

George's expression slowly transformed into a grin. “Right you are, brother.”

Harry looked between the two of them, torn between intrigued and appalled. “Are you,” he lowered his voice, “planning a prank war _against the Headmaster_?”

“Nope,” said Fred.

“ _We_ are,” said George.

“And this time, Harrikins, that includes you.”

“What includes Harry?” Hermione asked, never failing to amaze Harry with her ability to pick the worst possible moment to tune in to a conversation.

“Eating,” said George, breezily, “at every meal. We'll sit together so we can keep an eye on him.”

Hermione nodded seriously. “I think that's a good idea. At least until –” She cut herself off, but the damage was done. Fred's eyes took on a steely glint, and Harry could almost see the cogs whirring inside his head. Mentally, Harry moved his timeline forward another few hours; Fred would have it all worked out by dinner.

“Did you hear,” Seamus said, throwing himself down onto the bench beside Ron, “Warrington's put his name in.” All five of them turned to look at the Slytherin table, where the hulking Slytherin Chaser had been surrounded by several younger members of his house, including Malfoy. Harry rolled his eyes. Last night, it had been Krum. Now, it was Warrington. Slimy git, trying to suck up to anyone who might be influential or useful.

Dean, who was never far away where Seamus was concerned, joined them at the table moments later, regaining their attention from the Slytherin table. “And Rivers,” he said, nodding towards a slim, brunette girl who had just entered the Hall. “That's at least two for Slytherin, now.”

Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust. “We can't have a Slytherin champion. That's just wrong. Who else have we got?”

Lee leaned over George to join the conversation. “Chambers from Ravenclaw – the tall lad, Prefect. He's alright. And Llewellyn, another Ravenclaw; she's not too bad, either, if you know what I mean.”

Seamus grinned and waggled his eyebrows at the mention of the curvy, blonde seventh-year, and Dean smacked him on the arm. “Behave, will you?”

Seamus suggested something that made even Fred and George blush, but Lee barely faltered. “All the Hufflepuffs can talk about is bloody Cedric Diggory.”

“I wouldn't have thought he'd want to risk that pretty face of his,” Ron muttered, scowling.

The twins both scoffed. “Complete twat, that one.”

“Can't even win Quidditch in a fair match.”

“Please,” Harry begged, not wanting to rehash how he lost Gryffindor the match against Hufflepuff, “tell me we've got at least one hope for Gryffindor?”

An embarrassed-looking Angelina sat down on Fred's other side and slipped her arm around his waist. “Uh, you've got me?”

Harry wanted to hate her. Anger coursed up in his chest, burning, making him want to say nasty things like ' _no hope for us then_ ' and ' _in that case, I might have to back Chambers_ '. But he didn't mean them. He didn't even know why he was thinking them. He _liked_ Angelina. So what he said instead was, “so, you're seventeen then?”

She nodded. “I had my birthday yesterday.”

That explained where the twins had disappeared to last night; they'd have been at whatever secret party had been arranged for her birthday. It still chafed him a little, but he was so unreasonably pleased that the ridiculous sex-fest rumour had been a lie that he gave his house mate a blinding smile. “I really hope you get it, Angelina.”

“Better you than Pretty-boy Diggory,” teased Fred, and Angelina blushed, and Harry hated her all over again.

Harry had underestimated Fred Weasley.

At the end of lunch, Ron and Hermione suggested they take a trip down to Hagrid's, and Harry had been moments away from agreeing when the twins had bodily lifted him from the bench.

“Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

“Just need a quick word.”

“We'll bring him back in one piece.”

And with that, he was whisked out of the Hall, along an abandoned corridor, and into an empty classroom. Silencing spells were up before he could open his mouth, and the twins both fixed him with a calculating look.

“So,” said Fred, “I'm curious. What does the Marauders' Map have to do with Dumbledore agreeing not to contact the Muggles?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, the word flying out of his mouth before he had time to think about it. He'd thought he had until dinner; he'd planned to come up with a clever explanation at some point this afternoon, but Fred was smarter than he'd given him credit for, and he was out of time.

George raised an eyebrow. “Some kind of code, then?”

Harry shrugged, still scrambling for a half-decent explanation. He was a terrible liar at the best of times, but the twins could see right through him and he'd had no time to prepare.

“Harry,” George said, his blue eyes looking into Harry's as if he could read his mind, “is this to do with the Dursleys hurting you? Has something happened that you haven't told us?”

“No,” Harry said, relieved that this, at least, was the truth.

Fred and George both seemed to almost deflate, the tension they'd been holding leaving them in great sighs of relief.

“So you're okay?” asked Fred, brows furrowed.

“As okay as I always am.” Harry smiled, hoping that if they were reassured of his safety, they'd let the matter drop.

“What did Hermione mean, then? What is 'Padfoot and Moony'?”

They were not going to let the matter drop. Harry chewed on his bottom lip, struggling with what he should and shouldn't tell them. He'd entrusted the twins with his dreams, his scar, and the Voldemort-Quirrell incident, and they'd proven themselves trustworthy enough with those secrets. But this was a whole different game. This was gambling with the lives of two of the people he loved most in this world, his dad's best friends, his only remaining links to his parents.

“If I tell you a secret, one that might get people killed, would you keep it to yourselves?” His heart was thudding at a million miles an hour in his chest, and he could feel his hands shaking as he hid them in his pockets.

Fred and George both nodded without hesitation. “Unless you're in danger,” said Fred, eyes clouded with concern.

“We'll take it to the grave,” finished George. “We can keep a secret Harry. Especially for you.”

“Padfoot and Moony are people. People who are very important to me, and who should have raised me instead of the Dursleys.”

That was it. He'd said it. There was no going back now.

“Why didn't they?” Fred demanded. “Why did they leave you with the Muggles?”

“It's a really long story. But Padfoot was sent to Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit, and Moony... This is a part that could get someone killed, so you cannot tell _anyone_.” Harry had already decided not to use their real names, not yet. If he could tell the twins the truth without revealing Sirius and Remus' identities, he could always tell them the whole truth later if they really did keep this to themselves. His gut was telling him they wouldn't tell a soul, but Harry had been let down by far too many people, far too many times. And trusting a friend had gotten his parents killed.

The twins nodded solemnly.

“Moony is a werewolf. They would never let him raise me, even though _I_ know he'd never hurt me.”

“But –”

“A _werewolf_?”

Harry bristled at the judgement in Fred's tone. “Not all werewolves are Dark or bloodthirsty. Moony is the kindest man I've ever met, and he has the patience of a saint to put up with Padfoot.”

“So, Padfoot isn't in Azkaban anymore? Why can't you live with him?”

“It's complicated.” Saying he'd escaped would be like putting up a large, flashing sign saying 'His name is Sirius Black'.

“But they care about you?”

“Yes.”

“And they know about the Dursleys?”

“A bit.”

Fred and George fell silent; Harry could see them having a silent conversation using the secret twin-telepathy powers they seemed to have, communicating through a series of unreadable facial expressions. Harry clenched his hands in his pockets, his short nails digging little crescent-shaped marks into his soft palms. They didn't seem angry. They weren't running for the door, screaming his secrets at the top of their lungs. So far, so good, Harry reassured himself.

Finally, the twins turned back to face him.

“If they care about you and want to get you away from the Muggles, they're fine by us.”

That... That was it? Harry could feel his mouth hanging open, but he was too stunned to close it. “I just – I – My... I tell you that my guardians are a convict and a werewolf, and you're okay with that?”

“Yes,” they said in unison, smiling.

“Don't care what they are. They sound better than your aunt and uncle.”

“They are,” Harry said, fervently.

“One more question,” said Fred, expression serious, and Harry's heart dropped. He knew it had been too easy. “Are they anything to do with the Padfoot and Moony on the Marauders' Map?”

This, Harry could answer. He grinned. “They _are_ the Padfoot and Moony on the Map.”


	14. The Fourth Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the timeline of Goblet of Fire Chapter Sixteen (and, just barely, a tiny bit of Seventeen).

“ _One more question,” said Fred, expression serious, and Harry's heart dropped. He knew it had been too easy. “Are they anything to do with the Padfoot and Moony on the Marauders' Map?”_

_This, Harry could answer. He grinned. “They_ are _the Padfoot and Moony on the Map.”_

Harry enjoyed a few moments of the twins' awed silence, grinning at their open mouths and sparkling eyes.

“They were the best pranksters in the school, back in the day,” he said with a little shrug, as if it were unimportant information. “Perhaps when they get here, I could share a few of your products with them?”

The twin's eyes lit up with glee, and Fred was practically vibrating with excitement at the possibility of sharing some of their inventions with their idols. If the four of them were, for any reason, ever alone in the same room together, McGonagall would likely hand in her resignation effective immediately, and Peeves would think all his Christmases had come at once. The entire castle wouldn't know what had hit it.

For now, though, the twins would have to remain ignorant as to their identities, and Harry would have to act as a go-between. Harry knew his godfather would get a kick out of the joke sweets and trick wands, even if he only used them to irritate Remus. Sirius' birthday was coming up, so maybe the twins would sell him a few things that he could wrap up as a present. Remus, as serious as he pretended to be, would be in his element if he could get his hands on some of their experimental charms work to have a go at it himself. If they both had to remain in hiding for however long they decided to stay at Hogwarts, at least the twins' products would keep them busy and cheer them up a little.

Spending the afternoon with Hagrid had contained the usual amount of inedible cakes and dangerous creatures, but was interspersed by Hagrid compulsively looking out of his window. When he'd abandoned them in his cabin at the first sight of Madame Maxime emerging from the Beauxbatons carriage, its proximity to Hagrid's hut and his window-watching had suddenly made a lot more sense.

“He fancies her!” said Ron, incredulously, as the two enormous figures disappeared up the path to the school. “That's why he was wearing that hideous suit!”

“That suit is worse than your dress robes, Ron,” Harry teased. Ron shot him a withering look, but did eventually give in to laughter when Harry was unable to rein in his own giggles at the image of Hagrid in the maroon, lacy monstrosity.

Accepting that they'd been left behind, they let themselves out of the cabin and closed the door behind them, setting off across the grounds to the castle. It was nearly time for the Hallowe'en feast and the selection of school champions, so the trio headed directly for the Great Hall.

Harry spotted the twins immediately. The previous week seemed like a bad dream as the two automatically made space between them for Harry to sit down, George casting a warming charm and Fred pouring him a pumpkin juice. Harry smiled, grateful for the return of normality with the twins.

“Hey, Harrikins!” Fred greeted, grinning. “You missed a very interesting afternoon!”

From the pouch of money on the table, Harry assumed Fred had been taking bets again. “Betting on who'll be Hogwarts champion?” Harry asked. “Who's the favourite?”

George rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, there are a lot of people – girls, mostly – who seem to think Diggory's a shoe-in for it just because he looks good.”

“Quite a lot of bets for our Angie, too,” Fred chimed in, and Harry forced himself to keep smiling as a jolt of anger coursed through him. He'd only just gotten the twins back, but it seemed he couldn't spend any time with Fred without Angelina being mentioned. Was it so wrong that he didn't want to share them with anyone right now?

“Has anyone else from Gryffindor put their name in?” At the start of term, when the Tournament had first been announced, seemingly everyone of age had wanted to enter. The self-assured bravado had seemed to leech away fairly quickly as the Tournament had crept closer and, last night, the bold claims of entering had dwindled significantly around the common room.

“Twenty-three, if you believe them all,” George said, in a tone that suggested he didn't, “mainly seventh years, but a few sixth years. Brian Cinderford. Lyla Khan. Fiona Belmont. Kenneth Towler. Even little Roslyn Euhurst says she's put her name in.”

Fred scoffed. “If her name comes out of the Goblet, Lee'll be seventy galleons richer.”

Harry had absolutely no idea who any of those people were, but he nodded along, inordinately pleased that both Fred and George's attention remained on their conversation, despite Angelina, Alicia, and Katie sitting down beside them.

Ludo Bagman and Mr Crouch were back at the head table, and as Dumbledore welcomed everyone to the Hallowe'en feast, Harry noticed that Hagrid was not the only one trying to impress a lady. Ludo – back in his ill-fitting Quidditch gear – was flirting outrageously with Madame Hooch, who had to be easily twice his age and looked completely disinterested.

“Barking up the wrong tree with that one,” Fred muttered to Harry. “Hooch prefers the fairer sex. Not that anyone would want that swindling bastard, anyway.”

Harry didn't have time to ask what he meant by either of those things, because Dumbledore concluded his speech, and the tables immediately overflowed with food. Harry's plate quickly filled with fresh bread, steak and ale pie, and roasted vegetables, courtesy of the twins, who had taken their earlier promise to heart. Having them dish up his food took away the anxiety of having to pick his own; it always put him on edge, irrationally worried that the food would be snatched back by someone shouting that it wasn't for freaks like him. Harry's chest filled with a comforting warmth as he watched them argue over portion sizes and which pieces of potato would be fluffiest on the inside. It was the total opposite of everything he had known at the Dursleys; as a child living in the cupboard, he couldn't have dreamed this up in a million years.

Hermione eyed Harry's full plate and nodded approvingly, and Harry didn't have the heart to tell any of them that he wasn't hungry. Perhaps it was Hagrid's cooking that afternoon, or the fact that he felt too tired to eat, or maybe it was the way that Angelina had muscled her way into the seat next to Fred and laid her hand on his arm. But he had warm food in front of him, given to him by people who cared if he ate and cared if he slept and worried when he fainted, so he forced himself to slowly take bite after bite as the conversation around him returned to speculation over who would be chosen as the Hogwarts champion.

After what felt like hours, Harry's half-empty plate disappeared and, as Dumbledore returned to his podium, the noise in the hall died away to nothing. Everyone on Harry's side of the Gryffindor table swung their legs over the bench, turning to better see the events unfolding at the front of the Hall. George rested his arm along the table behind them, and Harry leaned back into the comfortable warmth. Time was up; the twins had not been able to enter their names, and nor had Ron or any of his dorm mates, so he could finally sit back and just enjoy watching the events unfold.

“It is almost time for the Goblet to make its decision. When the champions' names are called, I ask them to please make their way to the top of the Hall, walk in front of the staff table, and pass through that doorway –” Dumbledore indicated to the door from which the Goblet had emerged yesterday evening “– where you will be joined by the other champions, the Heads of the three schools, and, of course, Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch.”

With a wave of his wand, the Hall was plunged into darkness, leaving the brightly-glowing Goblet, which had been moved to the front of the Great Hall, as the only source of light.

“Any second now,” Lee whispered from his seat on the other side of George. “Just you wait, I'll be seventy galleons richer.”

“In your dreams.”

The flames inside the Goblet slowly bled from blue to red, fizzling and spitting out sparks, and the entire Hall held their breaths. A tongue of red flames curved into the air, carrying a charred piece of parchment which fluttered down into Dumbledore's waiting hand. As the flames settled back to a pale blue, Dumbledore turned his attention to the parchment.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he began, and Harry's eyes automatically sought out Krum, who was sitting between Malfoy and Warrington at the end of the Slytherin table. “Will be Viktor Krum.”

The whole Hall erupted into cheers and applause, though the response from the Beauxbatons contingent was markedly reserved.

Harry grinned; of course, the best Seeker in the world would be chosen.

Behind him, Ron was ecstatic. “No surprises there!” he shouted, as Krum stood up to make his way to the front of the Hall. As he passed, he caught Harry's eye and, though his expression remained impassive, Harry caught the slightest incline of his head in greeting. Now _that_ was a man he'd love to play a Seekers Match against. Krum disappeared through the archway, and the cheers slowly died down.

Within moments, the flames turned red once again. Dumbledore plucked the second slip of parchment from the air.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour.”

A beautiful, blonde witch rose to her feet as fluidly as water, and half the eyes in the hall were transfixed.

“It's her, Harry,” Ron hissed. “The Veela girl!”

Hermione's disapproving huff reached Harry's ears and he chuckled. Hermione still didn't think the girl was a Veela, and Harry was no use at all because he didn't understand Ron's reaction to her in the slightest.

When Fleur Delacour, too, had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was so thick with excitement Harry could feel the hairs on his arms prickling. The Hogwarts Champion was next. Beside him, Fred was holding Angelina's hand tightly, and Harry leaned closer to George, refusing to let his eyes deviate from the Goblet at the front of the hall.

“Last guesses?” George murmured, his lips soft against Harry's ear, and a flash of heat shot down his spine. If Harry had, at any point, had an answer to George's question, it completely fled his mind in that moment.

The flames slipped from blue to red for the final time, sparks popping and crackling, and a tongue of flame delivered the final name. Dumbledore snatched it from the air far more quickly than he had the other two, and Harry smiled. He wasted no time in making the announcement.

“The Hogwarts Champion is Cedric Diggory!”

“No!” Ron shouted, but thankfully his yell was drowned out by the roar that erupted from the Hufflepuff table and quickly spread throughout the other three houses.

Harry and George both sighed, but Harry clapped anyway, and George gave a half-hearted whistle. Diggory wasn't their first choice, but at least it wasn't a Slytherin.

On Harry's other side, where Harry definitely wasn't looking, Fred was too busy consoling Angelina to join in the celebrations.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore shouted over the roar of the crowd. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count on all of you to give your champions every ounce of support –”

Dumbledore's voice faltered and fell silent as the flames inexplicably began to glow red for a fourth time, crackling and hissing in the silence. As they all watched on in disbelief, a twisting funnel of red flame coiled out of the chalice, delivering a fourth piece of parchment into Dumbledore's hand.

Dumbledore slowly unfolded the paper, his expression unreadable.

The entire Hall was silent. Dumbledore stared at the parchment in his hand. Everyone in the Hall stared at Dumbledore.

Then, without looking up, he cleared his throat and read out the name on the parchment.

“Harry Potter.”

At first, no one moved. No one spoke.

Harry was frozen in his seat, simultaneously aware that Dumbledore had spoken his name and convinced that he must have misheard him.

Then it all happened at once.

Dumbledore looked up, this time shouting. “Harry Potter!”

Fred and George turned to him, both talking at once.

“Don't you dare get up.”

“What the hell is going on?”

Throughout the Hall, whispers began to break out, slowly growing louder.

McGonagall swept down from the head table, expression fierce, to say something to Dumbledore. He listened with a grave face, nodded, and waited silently as she returned to her place at the table. Once she was seated, Dumbledore turned his attention back to the hall full of anxious, whispering students.

“Harry Potter!” he repeated. “Up here, if you please.”

Harry turned to George, heart pounding, hands shaking. “But I didn't put my name in,” he said, and he hated that his voice shook and broke. He didn't know what else to say. How could his name have come out of the Goblet when he hadn't entered it? Why had the Goblet given four names, instead of three?

“Go, Harry,” George said, softly. “We'll find a way to get your guardians – the real ones – here as soon as possible. You won't be competing.”

Dumbly, Harry nodded, and the arm behind his back moved to nudge him forward. On numb legs, Harry stood, making his way woodenly to the front of the Hall. The whispers increased, and he tried to tune them out; most of the comments were unkind, especially those coming from the Hufflepuff table. The walk to the front of the Hall had never felt so immeasurably long.

After what could have been moments or days, he arrived in front of Dumbledore, who was staring at him, unsmiling. “Through the door, Harry,” was all he said, as Harry slowly passed him. Snape and Sprout were glaring as he made his way along the staff table. McGonagall looked worried. Hagrid aghast. Flitwick stunned. Moody, as always, was entirely emotionless, but his false eye followed Harry's progress down the table and, if the prickles on the back of his neck were any indication, did not stop watching him until he passed through the doorway and closed it behind him.


	15. The Binding Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very closely follows the timeline and events from Goblet of Fire Chapter Seventeen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is incredibly close to canon, but I felt it was essential to the storyline and could not be ignored or skimmed over.

The room Harry found himself in was filled with trophies, and the walls covered in portraits. As Harry entered, several of the witches and wizards contained within them abruptly disappeared; some reappeared in other frames throughout the room, gathering together to whisper amongst themselves.

Victor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour stood in front of the large fire, slightly apart from one another and determinedly not speaking. Krum was leaning against one end of the mantelpiece, expression brooding as he stared into the flames. Diggory appeared to be inspecting the trophies lined up on the mantel. Fleur Delacour stood close to the flames, a light shawl around her shoulders; she was the first to turn around as Harry entered. Cedric Diggory's eyes followed the path of her silvery hair as she flicked it over one shoulder, but Krum's eyes remained fixed to Harry as he walked closer to the trio, uncertain of his welcome.

“What is it?” the woman demanded. “Do zey want us back in zee Hall?”

Not unreasonably, she thought he had been sent to deliver a message. Harry didn't know how to correct her, how to explain what had just happened in the Hall. Mutely, he shook his head, coming to a stop several feet away from the three champions. It struck him how much _older_ they were. Technically adults, each one of them, and even Fleur stood more than a foot taller than him. Krum, with his muscular frame, was twice as wide as Harry's skinny body could ever hope to be, and his dark eyes held a sort of serious maturity Harry couldn't fathom having. Even Diggory, who Harry had always seen as an equal – or even less than – on the Quidditch pitch, was taller, older, more experienced than Harry. He might not be a match for Harry as a Seeker, but as a wizard, he was years ahead in knowledge and power.

Behind him, he heard footsteps hurrying towards the door and the sound of it being thrown open. Ludo Bagman was the first to reach him, carelessly grabbing Harry's arm. Anxiety flooded through him, breaking through the numbness that had settled over him upon hearing Dumbledore call his name, and he yanked himself away.

Mr Bagman remained oblivious, grinning madly and muttering to himself as he urged Harry closer to the other three students.

“Extraordinary... Absolutely extraordinary... Gentlemen, gentlemen... Oh, and lady.” His eyes went a bit glassy as he regarded Fleur, and Harry took the chance to move out of his reach. The sideways steps took Harry a fair bit closer to the Durmstrang champion than he had intended, but the older student nodded kindly at him, sending an inexplicable flush of warmth through Harry's chest. He flushed as he smiled back, feeling awkward and young and embarrassed beside the composed manner of the international Seeker.

By the time he had gathered himself, Bagman had come to his senses and was once again beaming at Harry. “Gentlemen and lady, may I present – as impossible as it may seem – the _fourth_ Triwizard Champion!”

Krum stiffened and took a step back, his dark eyes now regarding Harry with something akin to suspicion. Diggory turned to Harry, his brows furrowed, seemingly struggling to process the information. Fleur, however, let out a little, tinkling laugh that brought a red flush immediately to the cheeks of both Diggory and Mr Bagman.

“Oh!” she said, flicking her long hair away from her face, “zat joke is vairy funny, Meester Bagman!”

Bagman straightened himself up, causing his belly to protrude even further from beneath his poorly fitted Quidditch jersey, and smiled earnestly at the French student. “Oh, no, Miss Delacour. Not a joke! Harry's name came out of the Goblet of Fire!”

Fleur frowned. “Zere are _three_ champions. Zere must 'ave been a mistake! Besides,” she said, flicking her hand dismissively towards Harry, “Ze boy eez too young!”

“Well, ah...” Bagman floundered, still smiling beatifically at Fleur, “you see, his name came out of the Goblet... It is rather amazing, but the age restriction only came in this year... Not binding, the age restriction, not like the Goblet. And as his name's come out of the Goblet... Well, I don't think there's any backing out at this stage. It's all in the rules, you see... Harry will –”

The door once again swung open, this time slamming into the wall behind it as Professor Dumbledore strode in, followed closely by several others: Mr Crouch, High Master Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape. He was relieved to see his tenacious Head of House among them; she wouldn't stand for any ridiculous talk of an underage wizard competing in a deadly tournament. They'd have to believe that he'd never put his name in, and then he could go back to watching everything from the sidelines, where he'd wanted to be all along. Harry heard the sounds of hundreds of voices from the Hall before the door closed sharply behind them.

Fleur pushed past the near-drooling Ludo Bagman to reach her headmistress, hair flying behind her as she stormed across the room. “Madame Maxime!” she cried indignantly, “zey are saying zis leetle boy eez to compete!”

Harry felt a little stab of indignation at being called a 'little boy', but he couldn't deny that, stood beside the three champions, he did _feel_ like one.

Madame Maxime drew herself up to her full, rather impressive height, and turned to Dumbledore. “'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions!” she declared. Harry hoped she was right. He would be more than happy to step down and allow Diggory to have the honours all to himself.

High Master Karkaroff left Snape's side to stand beside Madame Maxime, his eyes regarding Dumbledore coldly. “Yes,” he said, his voice nothing at all like the oily warmth he'd used to greet the Headmaster only a day prior, “I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed _two_ champions – or have I not read your rules carefully enough? And had we known that the Age Line was merely ornamental, we would have brought a wider selection of our own students.”

Snape stepped forward then, his eyes glittering with malice. “Now, now, Igor. No need to blame Dumbledore, when the fault so clearly lies with Potter. His determination to break rules has been obvious from the moment he arrived in this castle. And this would not be the first time he competed in something far beyond his age...” Snape's eyes flickered to McGonagall, a sneer twisting his lips. “He also saw fit to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team a year earlier than rules allow.”

Dumbledore did not give any outward indication of listening to Snape's monologue of Harry's apparent faults; his blue eyes remained fixed on him with an indecipherable expression. “Thank you, Severus, for your assessment of the situation. However, I believe we are best to ask Mr Potter if we are to ascertain the truth. Now, Harry. Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?”

“No.” He was very aware of the ten sets of eyes on him, watching him intently. Snape scoffed at his answer and muttered something that included the words 'lying' and 'father' under his breath. Everyone ignored him.

“Did you ask an older student to do it for you?”

“ _No_.” Why on earth would he have done that? He'd stressed himself to the point of fainting over the mere thought of the twins entering! Why did anyone think he would have wanted to enter himself?

“But of course 'e is lying!” cried Madame Maxime, and Snape's face twisted into a grotesque smirk.

“What did I say, Headmaster?” he began, but Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him.

Madame Maxime was not as easily silenced. “An older student must 'ave 'elped 'im! Or you must 'ave made a mistake wiz zee Age Line!” Given her immense size, the volume her voice was able to reach rattled the trophies on their shelves and the portraits in their frames. Harry took a step back from the giant woman, but again, Dumbledore remained unmoved.

“It is possible, of course,” he allowed graciously. “I am only human, after all.”

“Nonsense!” snapped McGonagall. “Albus, you know full well you did no such thing. Harry could not have crossed the Age Line himself, and I believe him when he says he did not convince an older student! So the real question is _how this happened_.”

Karkaroff stepped forwards once more, but completely ignored both Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall; instead, he addressed the two Ministry officials directly. “Mr Crouch, Mr Bagman,” he said, and his voice was once again obsequious and wheedling, “there are only three schools. Only three champions. To break this tradition after centuries... Surely, you must agree, this is highly unusual?”

Mr Crouch had not joined the ring of people that had formed around Harry, instead remaining in the half-light beside the doorway, so the attention fell to Bagman, who began to sweat visibly under the pressure. He pulled a worn handkerchief from a pocket of his robes, dabbing liberally at his forehead and red cheeks. “Well, I, ah... You see, it's – what I mean to say –”

Mr Crouch stepped forwards, his face solemn. “We must follow the rules,” he said, his voice as cold and emotionless as ever, but brooking no argument. “The rules state clearly that those whose names who emerge from the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete. There is no other alternative.”

“Then I insist on resubmitting the names of my students,” Karkaroff rebutted, a very ugly grimace marring his already-unpleasant features. “And Beauxbatons will do the same. You will re-light the Goblet, and each school will have two champions.”

Mr Crouch's expression did not change. “The Goblet of Fire does not merely ignite on command, High Master. It lights for twenty-four hours only, at the commencement of each Tournament. There will be no re-lighting of the Goblet, and no resubmissions. The champions have been selected, and that is how it will remain.”

“How this situation arose, we have yet to determine. But for now, it seems,” Dumbledore said his expression grave, and his blue eyes devoid of their usual twinkle, “that both Mr Diggory and Mr Potter will represent Hogwarts in this Tournament.”

“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr –”

“If you have an alternative,” the Headmaster said sharply, turning his stern expression on the Beauxbatons Headmistress, “I would be delighted to hear it.”

It seemed that Madame Maxime did not have any suggestions as to how to free Harry from his entirely unwelcome position as a Triwizard champion, as she merely glared silently at Dumbledore. Nor, did it seem, did anyone else have any recommendations. Harry's last hopes rested on the twins somehow contacting Remus and Sirius; as guardians to an underage wizard, surely they had the right to withdraw him?

After a few moments of tense silence, Bagman clapped his hands together. Harry flinched at the sudden noise, heart leaping uncomfortably in his chest; a glance around suggested that no one had noticed his reaction, at least, and he took a few, deep breaths to calm himself.

The ex-Quidditch player was once again gazing misty-eyed at the Beauxbatons champion, and while Diggory seemed similarly distracted whenever he looked at her, no one else in the room seemed remotely affected. This, too, gave Harry a measure of relief; Hermione had been sure that Veela affected all men. Harry's lack of interest in the blonde girl had been held up as either proof that Fleur wasn't one (Hermione's opinion), or that he was somehow defective (Ron's opinion). And yet, here were two men clearly attracted to the older girl, while six - including Harry - remained immune.

“Let's get down to business!” Bagman said, brightly, completely oblivious to the tone of the room. “Give our champions their instructions and get the Tournament underway! Barty,” he grinned, nudging the man beside him with his elbow, “do you want to do the honours?”

Mr Crouch started, as if being pulled from a deep daydream. “Ah, uh, yes,” he muttered, sounding not at all like his usual self. Moments later, though, his stern demeanour returned in expression and tone. “The first task,” he said, “is designed to test your daring. So we are not going to be telling you what it is.” Well, those were bloody useless instructions! “Courage in the face of the unknown is a very important quality in a wizard.”

Harry fought very hard not to roll his eyes. 'Courage in the face of the unknown' had been his life for the past three years, was that not enough proof of his quality as a wizard? He'd be happy to provide them a detailed account of the events surrounding the Philosopher's Stone, the diary and basilisk, and theoretically being hunted by a madman for a year followed by facing off against over one hundred of Azkaban's finest. Idly, he wondered whether they'd prefer him to relay the stories in essay form, a verbal recounting, or some type of interpretive dance.

“The task will take place in three weeks' time, on the twenty-fourth of November. You are not permitted to ask for or receive help of any kind from your professors or any Ministry official in order to complete the tasks. You will face the first task armed only with your wand.”

Three weeks should give Remus and Sirius enough time to reach Hogwarts, and if they couldn't get him out of the Tournament, at least they could offer him some help and support. The only other adult he could even consider turning to for help was Mr Weasley and, as a “Ministry official”, he was out of the runnings. Not that anyone could give him much help at all with an unknown, unspecified 'test of daring'.

Mr Crouch's monotonous voice droned on about end of year exams and other potential issues which Harry was sure should be important, but he couldn't bring himself to listen or care. All he wanted to do was go back to his dorm and hide away from the world. The only people he had the energy for were Ron, Hermione, the twins, and his godfathers. They wouldn't glare subtly at him, wondering how he'd cheated. They wouldn't take a step away any time he moved closer, wouldn't question him or blame him, wouldn't demand answers or demand he risked his life in a deadly tournament.

He had six people in his life that actually cared about him, and they were the only people he wanted to be around.

Finally, on some signal Harry must have missed, the room began to empty of people. Madame Maxime wrapped an arm around Fleur and guided her out of the door. Karkaroff jerked his head towards Krum, who followed the High Master from the room without so much as a backwards glance at Harry. Crouch and – with some reluctance – Bagman also headed out; Crouch was intent on returning to the Ministry to 'check on Weatherby', though who that was and why they were still at the Ministry at this time of night, Harry couldn't fathom. When only Harry, Diggory, and Hogwarts' staff remained, Dumbledore turned to the two champions. “Harry, Cedric,” he said wearily, though some of the twinkle had returned to his pale eyes, “I suggest you both go up to your common rooms. I am sure your Houses will be waiting to celebrate with you, and we ought not to deprive them of an excellent excuse to ignore curfew and get very drunk.”

McGonagall's lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappeared, and Harry made a mental note to warn all of his housemates to hide their Firewhisky very well indeed should they be drinking any. He was in no mood to celebrate, but Dumbledore was right; the Gryffindors loved any excuse for a party, and having a Triwizard champion in the house certainly would seem like one to them.

It was with a heavy heart and a fair amount of trepidation that Harry turned to follow Diggory out of the door and into the Great Hall.


	16. The Only Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaguely based during Goblet of Fire Chapter Seventeen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: anxiety/panic attack, and Harry says 'fuck'.

Harry and Diggory walked beside one another in uncomfortable silence until they reached the Entrance Hall. As Harry turned to bid the older student a hasty goodbye, Diggory offered him a smile.

“So,” he whispered, consiprationally, “that was a good show in there. But how _did_ you get your name in the Goblet? I know those twins of yours didn't manage it.”

Harry bristled, both at the accusation and at the way Diggory called the twins 'his' in such a derogatory tone. He couldn't explain why, but that had set fire burning in his veins far more effectively than the accusation. “I didn't,” he snapped. “I didn't put my name in. It wasn't a 'show'; I was telling the truth.”

The Hufflepuff student shrugged, and Harry could tell Diggory didn't believe him. _Fine_ , Harry thought, _let him think what he likes. It doesn't matter what he thinks anyway._ His desire to get back to the common room, back to Ron and Hermione and the twins, resurfaced more fiercely than ever, and he turned sharply on his heel to head up the marble staircase without so much as a backwards glance at Diggory.

Would everyone behave like Diggory, think like him? Would everyone assume he had put his own name in? Krum had certainly seemed to; his previously friendly attitude towards Harry had vanished like smoke when he'd heard he was the fourth champion. How could anyone in their right mind think someone like him – someone who'd only known about the Wizarding world for three years, for Godric's sake – would want to enter a deadly tournament for which he lacked both the knowledge and experience to survive?

That thought stopped Harry dead. Harry, obviously, would not want to enter himself in a tournament that could kill him. But someone who _wanted_ him to die would certainly do that. His first, ridiculous thought was Malfoy, the smug, Slytherin prat. But he was no more of age than Harry was, and subtle acts weren't his style. He liked drama, attention; he usually came for Harry when people were watching, when Harry knew who it was who was attacking him. Besides, he'd _hurt_ Harry, sure, but actual murder seemed a bit beyond him. His Head of House, however... Snape was a very real possibility, Harry realised. The Potions Master had, somewhat inexplicably, ensured his attendance at the champions' meeting, and had pushed harder than anyone for the explanation that Harry must have entered his own name. Snape had always hated him, and a chance to discredit Harry _and_ kill him off must seem like a once in a lifetime opportunity to him.

As soon as his godfathers arrived at Hogwarts, Harry was going to tell them. They'd know how to prove that it was Snape, and then Harry wouldn't have to compete and Snape would go to Azkaban and everything would be okay again.

If Harry _was_ right, a few people were about to make a lot of money on the “attempted murder by a member of staff” bet – and much sooner in the school year than was usual, too.

“Well, well, well,” came a voice, and Harry started, tripping over his own feet. He righted himself, and came face to face with the Fat Lady. He'd walked all the way to Gryffindor Tower without even realising, lost in his thoughts.

“Balderdash,” he said, but the portrait didn't budge.

The Fat Lady was accompanied in her frame by several other witches, one of whom Harry was sure he recognised from a portrait in the trophy room. “Violet's just told me everything!” she said, in her high, grating voice. “So, you're the school champion?”

“Balderdash,” Harry said, more loudly and insistently than before.

One of the witches – Violet, Harry assumed – looked rather affronted, but the Fat Lady rolled her eyes and finally swung forwards, letting Harry into the Common Room. The blast of noise that hit his ears almost convinced him to turn around, but four of the six people he cared about were somewhere inside, and that thought alone drove Harry to step through the portrait hole and into Gryffindor Tower. Within moments, there were people on either side of him, grasping his arms and pulling him deeper into the crush of people. He tensed for a moment, but a gentle rubbing of a thumb over his skin on the right hand side settled him immediately – it was the twins who had grabbed him.

“You should have told us you'd entered!” yelled Fred, dragging him enthusiastically towards a table piled high with Butterbeer and Firewhisky.

“How _did_ you do it?” George asked. He sounded impressed and intrigued but, as Harry turned towards him, he caught a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“I didn't,” he said, imploring George to understand. “I swear I –”

But at that moment, Angelina appeared, wrapping her arm around Fred's waist and offering him a sip of her drink. “Well,” she said, grinning and obviously drunk, “if it couldn't be me, 's least it's a Gryffindor! Any 'scuse to celebrate, 'ey, Freddie?”

“Harry'll be able to pay Diggory back for that Quidditch match!” chimed in Fred, though his attention was now mostly on Angelina and her stupid. drunken giggling and her indecently low top and the full cup of alcohol she was offering him.

“Might win us a few bets,” Alicia and Katie chimed.

“C'mon,” said Lee, swinging his arm around Harry's shoulders and ignoring – or not noticing – the way he flinched. “We've got food and drink. Pick your poison, school champion! It's time to celebrate.”

Nobody cared that he didn't want to be touched. Didn't want anything to eat or drink. Didn't put his name in the Goblet. Didn't want to be school champion. Certainly didn't want to watch as Angelina's tongue made it's way down Fred's throat. Lee unearthed a Gryffindor flag and draped it around his shoulders like a cape. Alicia shoved a Butterbeer into one hand, and George shoved a cauldron cake into the other. Harry couldn't escape. Every time he tried to catch George's eye or take a step towards the dormitory staircase, or even just slip away for a gasp of air, the crowd around him seemed to close ranks, pushing him back towards the center of the room. They forced food and drink into his hands, grabbed him, hugged him, slapped him on the back, ruffled his hair. Kept touching and grabbing and talking and Harry could feel panic rising rapidly in his chest. Tightening around his ribs. Air leaving his lungs and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get enough back in.

“George,” he said, barely more than a whisper, as panic clawed it's way up, closing his throat. But the older boy heard him, somehow, despite the noise that surrounded them, and firm, warm, _welcome_ arms reached for him, steadied him. Harry looked up gratefully then, for the second time that day, fainted dead away.

Harry woke again to voices around his hospital bed.

“He missed his evening doses, George Weasley!”

That was Madame Pomfrey. Harry had never heard her sound so disappointed, and he felt an uncomfortable pang in his chest. It wasn't George's fault. He struggled through the fog, forcing himself back to full consciousness to tell her so, when he heard another voice.

“The twins have been looking out for Harry, Poppy. That they tried is more than enough.”

Harry's eyes flew open, and even through the haze of poor eyesight, he'd recognise the tall, sandy-haired man anywhere.

“Remus,” he rasped.

It was the first time Harry had used that name out loud, but he couldn't call him 'Professor Lupin' any more. Not when the man was pacing at the foot of his sickbed, here at Hogwarts _weeks_ before Harry had expected him all because he'd known Harry would need him. He hadn't known Harry would faint, but someone had obviously succeeded in letting them know about the Goblet. Harry's eyes pricked with tears; he'd never had anyone before that would drop everything, risk everything, to be there just because he needed them.

Remus rushed to his side, falling to his knees beside the bed and taking Harry's head into his hands. “Harry, thank Godric! Are you okay, cub? Are you in pain?”

His gentle fingers probed the back of Harry's head, feeling for where he'd landed on the stone floor earlier that day, but there was no pain. Harry shook his head. “No,” he whispered, “it doesn't hurt.”

George appeared on his other side with a glass of water and offered it to him. His hands felt to heavy, too clumsy to hold it himself, but Remus took over without needing to be asked. He held the cool glass to his lips while he drank, wiping away the water that dribbled down his chin without comment.

“Where's Padfoot?” Harry asked, as soon as his mouth no longer felt like the Sahara. “Is he safe?”

Remus nodded, a soft smile on his face. “Perfectly safe, Harry. I promise. He'll be here soon.”

George was regarding Remus with a calculating expression on his face, and Harry's heart sank. He'd said too much. It wouldn't be long before George worked out that Remus was Moony, the werewolf. Remus' secret would no longer be a secret. Harry hoped he could convince George not to tell anyone; he needed Remus to be here, at least until they got him out of the Tournament.

“Where's Fred?” Harry asked, turning to George. The events in the common room were slowly coming back, pieces of the night slotting into place like puzzle pieces. Fred had been there, in the common room... Harry's chest tightened. With Angelina. Fred had been with Angelina.

“Here.”

Harry craned his neck to look past Remus, and noticed two figures hovering by the end of his bed. One of them was tall and ginger – Fred, Harry assumed, as George was still hovering beside his bed.

“Oh,” Harry said, unable to keep the bite from his tone. “Where's your girlfriend?”

Harry never got an answer, because at that moment, the Infirmary doors opened and a massive, black object streaked through them, heading straight for Harry's bed. Unlike Remus' gentle, hesitant approach, Padfoot launched himself over the end of the bed, landing with his paws on either side of Harry's body. Harry was pinned to the bed as Padfoot frantically sniffed and licked every inch of him, but Harry didn't mind. He carded his fingers through the soft fur behind the dog's ears, reassuring himself that Padfoot was real and here and safe.

“I'm okay, Padfoot,” Harry whispered, as the dog's tongue rasped over his cheek, “I'm not hurt.”

The black dog huffed disbelievingly, continuing to nuzzle and nose around Harry's head and neck, checking him over for any injuries. Harry's eyes stung and filled with tears until he could no longer contain them; they spilled over and poured down his cheeks, where a soft, wet tongue caught them before they could hit his pillow. This was what having a family was, Harry realised. Having adults that would put themselves at risk to care for you. Having people who worried when you were hurt, who were overjoyed when you were okay again, who would do anything just to be by your side. His life would have been so very different if he'd been raised by Remus and Sirius from the start, and part of him mourned that loss, but a much larger part of him was simply elated that he had them now. Writing letters to them had made his summer, but having them _here_ , in the flesh, was everything.

“Thank you,” he whispered, burying his face into Padfoot's warm, soft neck. “Thank you for coming.”

The dog gave a soft yip in response, and Harry smiled through the tears. A human hand smoothed through his hair, comforting him. “You don't have to thank us, Harry,” Remus replied softly. “Thank the twins and Hermione for getting in touch with us so quickly. You're our family, now, and family are there for one another.”

“Say, Harry,” Fred said, suddenly, from the end of the bed, and Harry froze. He needed a chance to talk to his godfathers before the twins worked out that Remus was Moony; he needed a chance to warn Remus, to explain. Harry was so wrapped up in worrying about Remus' furry little problem, that the next words out of Fred's mouth blindsided him completely. “Why didn't you tell us you'd worked out a way to enter?”

Rage – hot, molten lava which had been slowly heating and simmering in his chest all evening – boiled over and shot through his veins like lightning. His hands, which had been petting Padfoot, now pushed the oversized canine away. His presence was no longer soothing, but overwhelming, overbearing. Caught off guard, Sirius fell sideways, slamming into Remus and then the floor, but Harry was too angry to feel guilty. He hauled himself up into a sitting position and glared at the indistinct blob that was Fred Weasley, his hands shaking with rage.

“Because,” he spat, “I _didn't fucking enter,_ you absolute prat! I knew Snape wouldn't believe me. I knew the other champions wouldn't believe me. I wasn't even surprised when Crouch and Bagman didn't believe me! But _you_!” Once the floodgates had opened, Harry found the surge of emotions were too great for him to shut them again; everything that had been building up since his name appeared out of the Goblet was flowing out of him, directed solely at Fred. “If you'd taken five seconds away from _Angelina_ ,” he spat the name as if it were poison and, given the dark, insidious anger her existence seemed to trigger, it might as well have been, “you'd have heard me. In the Hall, when I said I hadn't entered. In the common room, when I _said I hadn't entered_.” He wondered, briefly, if he was being unfair. Angelina was his girlfriend; she'd entered her name, and she was probably disappointed not to have been chosen, to have been bested by a fourth year and a pretty-boy Hufflepuff. A tiny, logical part of his brain whispered that it was only right that Fred would put her first, but the much larger, angrier part of his brain shut it up viciously. “I _fainted_ this morning because I was so worried about _you_ entering, but you think _I_ entered myself willingly? How thick are you, Fred? Or did Angelina suck all your brains out while she had her tongue down your throat?”

Harry ran out of steam abruptly, the image of Fred and Angelina filling his mind, and his stomach turned with nausea. The hot, bubbling rage fled his veins, chased out by icy fear and a heavy, bleak feeling of despair. Harry had been so sure that even if no one else believed him, he could always rely on the six people closest to him. But Ron was conspicuous in his absence, and Fred clearly thought he'd done it. If even his best friends, his family, didn't believe him, then who would? The Infirmary was filled with a tense, shocked silence, broken only by Harry's own, heavy panting and he tried to catch his breath from the tirade he'd just unleashed.

Remus was the first to break the silence. “Harry,” he said, softly, much in the way one would if approaching a particularly dangerous beast, “Dumbledore knows you didn't enter. We know you didn't enter. Padfoot and I, we're here now to find out who _did_ put your name in the Goblet and why. But no one,” here, his tone went hard, and Harry wondered if he'd turned his feral, golden eyes on Fred, “thinks you did this.”

Padfoot whined quietly beside him, and Harry knew that Sirius was agreeing with Remus. He longed so much for Sirius to be able to be human, to be able to speak to his godfather, to be wrapped up in his arms, not merely mauled by his Animagus form.

“I believe you, Harry,” Hermione said, her small hand resting over his covered foot. “And we'll find a way to get you out, I promise.”

A large hand grasped Harry's, and he turned his head towards George. If Fred didn't believe him, Harry hadn't thought for a moment that George would. “I believe you, Harry,” George said, his voice firm. “And,” he continued, his voice softening, “I am sorry that I forgot to bring you down for your evening doses. But at least I caught you this time!”

His face was somewhat blurry, but Harry could still make out the lopsided grin that lit George's face as he said it. Despite himself, he couldn't help grinning back. “Thanks. I'll make sure you're on hand any time I'm planning on fainting, shall I?”

George chuckled. “I'd rather you didn't faint at all, Harry, if it's all the same to you. I'll end up prematurely grey!”

Harry rolled his eyes and settled back slightly against the pillows. “Thank you,” he said, making sure he looked at Fred and Hermione, as well as George, “for getting my godfathers here so quickly.”

There was no way around it now. Fred, George, and Hermione had written to 'Moony and Padfoot', Harry's guardians; Hermione, of course, had known who she was writing to, but the twins hadn't. Harry had already called Sirius 'Padfoot', and Remus had more or less thanked the trio for writing to him. It was blindingly obvious to anyone with a brain – and, Harry admitted, Fred _did_ have one of those – that Remus was Moony, his werewolf guardian figure. He only hoped that the twins really _could_ keep a secret, and that their admiration for Professor Lupin and Moony, Marauder's Map creator, was enough to overcome their prejudices against werewolves.

George squeezed Harry's hand, as if knowing what he was thinking. “We can keep a secret,” he promised, before flicking his wand to put up a privacy ward around Harry's bed. Remus huffed in surprise.

“That's some ward, Mister Weasley. Not something they teach you at Hogwarts.”

George shrugged. “Nor is writing a magical map. Thanks for that, by the way, it's given us loads of help with pulling pranks.”

Padfoot yipped with something that Harry was sure was laughter until Remus thumped him on the shoulder.

“You,” he muttered, accusingly, “you're the ones who gave it to Harry.”

George remained unapologetic. “We'd memorised it by then. He needed it more than we did.”

“You put him in danger,” Remus countered. “Did you never stop to think that there was a _reason_ he wasn't allowed into Hogsmeade?”

Harry sat up sharply. “Stop. Remus, George, stop.” His anxiety was already climbing, and he couldn't stand to listen to them bickering over what _might_ have happened last year if Sirius had actually escaped Azkaban to hurt him. It was ridiculous; Sirius _hadn't_ been after him, and nothing bad had happened to Harry as a result of the Map, save for his interrogation from Snape. The two fell into an awkward silence, and Harry almost wished he'd let them continue.

Moments later, Madame Pomfrey swept through the privacy bubble. “Whoever put that up,” she said primly, “they won't work against me in my own domain, so it's best you don't even bother. Now, all Hogwarts students not currently in a bed, out. It's well past curfew.”

Hermione and Fred turned to leave with quiet 'goodbye's and 'get well soon's, but George hesitated, his hand still gripping Harry's.

“You as well, Mister Weasley. You can come back tomorrow morning at seven, and not a minute sooner.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” George muttered. “Goodnight, Professor Lupin. Padfoot.” Harry felt strangely bereft as George pulled his hand away and stood, leaving the Hospital Wing with Fred and Hermione.

“You, Mister Potter, need some sleep, so it's a dose of Dreamless for you, I'm afraid. Remus, you and your _companion_ may stay here, or in the quarters I'm sure have been set up for you.”

Harry didn't stay awake long enough to find out what Remus and Sirius had chosen, because the Matron tipped the deep blue potion down his throat, and he was asleep within seconds. The last thing he was consciously aware of was the warm weight of a dog's head on his chest and the feel of gentle fingers in his hair.


End file.
